All is amiss. Love is dying, faith's defying, heart's denying.

Love is a hole in the heart.

Love is not the dying moan of a distant violin - it's the triumphant twang of a bedspring.

He that is thy friend indeed, he will help thee in thy need: if thou sorrow, he will weep; if you wake, he cannot sleep; thus of every grief in heart he with thee doth bear a part.

Even if a unity of faith is not possible, a unity of love is.

Love is space and time measured by the heart.