“She was a ray of sunshine, a warm summer rain, a bright fire on a cold winter’s day, and now she could be dead because she had tried to save the man she loved.” ― Grace Willows
Love is not love which alters it when alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out, even to the edge of doom. Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show and straight is gone, as it had never been. Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fence, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope. The real lover is the man who can thrill you jus
