Oh Spring!
Thou art a letter that I write to her.
The future belongs to hearts even more than it does to minds.
Love, that is the only thing that can occupy and fill eternity.
In the infinite, the inexhaustible is requisite.
Love participates of the soul itself.
It is of the same nature.
Like it, it is the divine spark; like it, it is incorruptible, indivisible, imperishable.
It is a point of fire that exists within us, which is immortal and infinite, which nothing can confine, and which nothing can extinguish.
We feel it burning even to the very marrow of our bones, and we see it beaming in the very depths of heaven.
Oh Love!
Adorations! voluptuousness of two minds which understand each other, of two hearts which exchange with each other, of two glances which penetrate each other!
You will come to me, will you not, bliss! strolls by twos in the solitudes!
Blessed and radiant days!
I have sometimes dreamed that from time to time hours detached themselves from the lives of the angels and came here below to traverse the destinies of men.
God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love, except to give them endless duration.
After a life of love, an eternity of love is, in fact, an augmentation; but to increase in intensity even the ineffable felicity which love bestows on the soul even in this world, is impossible, even to God.
God is the plenitude of heaven; love is the plenitude of man.
You look at a star for two reasons, because it is luminous, and because it is impenetrable.
You have beside you a sweeter radiance and a greater mystery, woman.
All of us, whoever we may be, have our respirable beings.
We lack air and we stifle.
Then we die.
To die for lack of love is horrible.
Suffocation of the soul.
When love has fused and mingled two beings in a sacred and angelic unity, the secret of life has been discovered so far as they are concerned; they are no longer anything more than the two boundaries of the same destiny; they are no longer anything but the two wings of the same spirit.
Love, soar.
On the day when a woman as she passes before you emits light as she walks, you are lost, you love.
But one thing remains for you to do: to think of her so intently that she is constrained to think of you.
What love commences can be finished by God alone.
True love is in despair and is enchanted over a glove lost or a handkerchief found, and eternity is required for its devotion and its hopes.
It is composed both of the infinitely great and the infinitely little.
If you are a stone, be adamant; if you are a plant, be the sensitive plant; if you are a man, be love.
Nothing suffices for love.
We have happiness, we desire paradise; we possess paradise, we desire heaven.
Oh ye who love each other, all this is contained in love.
Understand how to find it there.
Love has contemplation as well as heaven, and more than heaven, it has voluptuousness.
“Does she still come to the Luxembourg?”
“No, sir.”
“This is the church where she attends mass, is it not?”
“She no longer comes here.”
“Does she still live in this house?” “She has moved away.”
“Where has she gone to dwell?”
“She did not say.”
What a melancholy thing not to know the address of one’s soul!
Love has its childishness, other passions have their pettinesses.
Shame on the passions which belittle man!
Honor to the one which makes a child of him!
There is one strange thing, do you know it?