brave enough to play the game of love quite alone with you, but they must get some third person or world to countenance them. They thrust others between. Love is so delicate and fastidious that I see not how it can ever begin. Do you expect me to love with you unless you make my love secondary to nothing else? Your words come tainted if the thought of the world darts between thee and the thought of me. You are not venturous enough for love. It goes alone unscared through wildernesses. As soon as I see people loving what they see merely, and not their own high hopes that they form of others, I pity them, and do not want their love. Did ask thee to love me who hate myself? No! Love that which I love, and I will love thee that loves it.
The love is faint-hearted and short-lived that is contented with the past history of its object. It does not prepare the soil to bear new crops lustier than the old.
I would I had leisure for these things, sighs the world. When I have done my quilting and baking, then I will not be backward.
Love never stands still, nor does its object. It is the revolving sun and the swelling bud. If I know what I love, it is because I remember it.
Life is grand, and so are its environments of
