What is lovely never dies, But passes into other loveliness.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
Beloved, till life can charm no more; And mourned, till Pity's self be dead.
Love is like a beautiful flower which I may not touch, but whose fragrance makes the garden a place of delight just the same.
Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.
Beauty is ever to the lonely mind a shadow fleeting; she is never plain. She is a visitor who leaves behind the gift of grief, the souvenir of pain.
Love remembered and consecrated by grief belongs, more clearly than the happy intercourse of friends, to the eternal world; it has proved itself stronger than death.
Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.
Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust; hatred alone is immortal.
Loveliest of lovely things are they on earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.