No more we meet in yonder bowers Absence has made me prone to roving; But older, firmer hearts than ours, Have found monotony in loving.
Our hours in love have wings; in absence, crutches.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Separated lovers cheat absence by a thousand fancies which have their own reality. They are prevented from seeing one another and they cannot write; nevertheless they find countless mysterious ways of corresponding, by sending each other the song of birds, the scent of flowers, the laughter of children, the light of the sun, the sighing of the wind, and the gleam of the stars –all the beauties of creation.
Separation penetrates the disappearing person like a pigment and steeps him in gentle radiance.
Sometimes I need what only you can provide, your absence.
Talk well of the absent whenever you have the opportunity.
The absent are never without fault. Nor the present without excuse.
The heart may think it knows better: the senses know that absence blots people out. We really have no absent friends. The friend becomes a traitor by breaking, however unwillingly or sadly, out of our own zone: a hard judgment is passed on him, for all the pleas of the heart.
The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.
The people who are absent are the ideal; those who are present seem to be quite commonplace.
When a man is out of sight, it is not too long before he is out of mind.
When delicate and feeling souls are separated, there is not a feature in the sky, not a movement of the elements, not an aspiration of the breeze, but hints some cause for a lover's apprehension.
Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.
Woman absent is woman dead.
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