There was after all no mystery in the end of love, no mystery but the mystery of love itself, which was large certainly but as real as grass, as natural and unaccountable as bloom and branch and their growth.

You know if your relationship is still blooming if both of you still continue to dream...

She rose too, not as if to meet him or to flee from him, but quietly, as though the worst of the task were done and she had only to wait; so quietly that, as he came close, her outstretched hands acted not as a check but as a guide to him.

Giving love and not getting it back wounds the heart, but loving someone in silence without the courage to let them know, wounds the soul.

At the end of the day, you have to go out on the grass and perform.

Failing in love is not sad, only failing to love is sad. Love may wound, but truly sad is the chance you miss when you don't put your heart on the line.