Love is something like the clouds that were in the sky, Before the sun came out. You cannot touch the clouds, you know but you feel the rain and know How glad the flowers and the thirsty earth are to have it after a hot day. You cannot touch love either, But you feel the sweetness that it pours into everything.
Love is the vital essence that pervades and permeates, from the center to the circumference, the graduating circles of all thought and action. Love is the talisman of human weal and woe--the open sesame to every soul.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
Men decide far more problems by hate, love, lust, rage, sorrow, joy, hope, fear, illusion, or some other inward emotion, than by reality, authority, any legal standard, judicial precedent, or statute.
Most of you have been where I am tonight. The crash site of unrequited love. You ask yourself, How did I get here What was it about Was it her smile Was it the way she crossed her legs, the turn of her ankle, the poignant vulnerability of her slender wrists What are these elusive and ephemeral things that ignite passion in the human heart That's an age-old question. It's perfect food for thought on a bright midsummer's night.