Aphrodite And Adonis Quotes

He’s an Adonis. Pure and simple. And that fits, because I’m his Aphrodite.

I escape to my bedroom and feed my pet eels some chopped boiled eggs. Aphrodite and Adonis perform a graceful dance, entwining their bodies, capturing the food as it floats down like they're lovers catching snowflakes on their tongues.

To be Starmarked is not to walk in the light. It is to walk in the dark – and light the way for others.

Because in a kingdom built on lies, the truth is the most dangerous thing we could ever uncover.

There’s something annoyingly graceful about the way he moves – like he was born knowing the world would bend for him. It makes me want to trip him.

Fragment of the Elegy on the Death of Adonis Prom the Greek of Bion Published by Forman, "Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1876. I mourn Adonis dead—loveliest Adonis— Dead, dead Adonis—and the Loves lament. Sleep no more, Venus, wrapped in purple woof— Wake violet-stoled queen, and weave the crown Of Death,—'tis Misery calls,—for he is dead. The lovely one lies wounded in the mountains, His white thigh struck with the white tooth; he scarce Yet breathes; and Venus hangs in agony there. The dark blood wanders o'er his snowy limbs, His eyes beneath their lids are lustreless, The rose has fled from his wan lips, and there That kiss is dead, which Venus gathers yet. A deep, deep wound Adonis... A deeper Venus bears upon her heart. See, his beloved dogs are gathering round— The Oread nymphs are weeping—Aphrodite With hair unbound is wandering through the woods, 'Wildered, ungirt, unsandalled—the thorns pierce Her hastening feet and drink her sacred blood. Bitterly screaming out, she is driven on Through the long vales; and her Assyrian boy, Her love, her husband, calls—the purple blood From his struck thigh stains her white navel now, Her bosom, and her neck before like snow. Alas for Cytherea—the Loves mourn— The lovely, the beloved is gone!—and now Her sacred beauty vanishes away. For Venus whilst Adonis lived was fair— Alas! her loveliness is dead with him. The oaks and mountains cry, Ai! ai! Adonis! The springs their waters change to tears and weep— The flowers are withered up with grief... Ai! ai! ... Adonis is dead Echo resounds ... Adonis dead. Who will weep not thy dreadful woe. O Venus? Soon as she saw and knew the mortal wound Of her Adonis—saw the life-blood flow From his fair thigh, now wasting,—wailing loud She clasped him, and cried ... 'Stay, Adonis! Stay, dearest one,... and mix my lips with thine— Wake yet a while, Adonis—oh, but once, That I may kiss thee now for the last time— But for as long as one short kiss may live— Oh, let thy breath flow from thy dying soul Even to my mouth and heart, that I may suck That...' NOTE: _23 his Rossetti, Dowden, Woodberry; her Boscombe manuscript, Forman

Best Hiking Zones Aphrodite Trail and Adonis Trail, Akamas Peninsula; Avakas Gorge, Akamas Heights; Kyrenia Mountain Trail, Kyrenia; Mt Olympus, Platres and the Troödos Mountains; Stavros tis Psokas forest reserve trails, Tylliria Best Riding

Aphrodite battled Ares to protect her wounded lover Adonis. When she was wounded and fell next to Adonis, their blood combined, turning the white quartz around them pink. The fusion is what made Rose Quartz—love and war. Battle and blood. Unconditional and perfect—just like you.

A completely spiritual love, the devotee sees God, the innermost Self, as divinely beautiful and lovely, an Adonis or Aphrodite, to be loved with affections verging on the erotic. In this style of love, all conventions, reservations, hesitations and personal views are cast aside and an exclusive, potentially jealous, love cultivated. A gargantuan appetite, craving for the embrace of God, the experience of the Self, is evidenced, the need for spiritual experience replacing the need for physical gratification. Just as lovers locked in the throes of orgasm do not know inside or outside, or which body is which, the devotee in union with the Self sees no distinctions and experiences, only the sweetest bliss. (p. 91)

Youths who were most handsome. Adonis, son of Cinyras and Smyrna, whom Venus [Aphrodite] loved. Endymion, son of Aetolus, whom Luna [Selene] loved. Ganymede, son of Erichthonius, whom Jove [Zeus] loved. Hyacinthus, son of Oebalus, whom Apollo loved. Narcissus, son of the river Cephisus, who loved himself.

Love is a promise. Loyalty is keeping it.

Her love is a seed of hope, a thread of light in the darkness that has clung to me for years.

A warmth blooms beneath my skin at the thought of her. The Heartstring bond sparks in my chest, a soft, persistent pulse. It feels like a part of her lingers with me, even when we’re apart.

I cling to him, breathing him in like a flower desperate for sunlight after too many long, dark nights.

I’d walk into the darkness. Face whatever monsters lay in wait. If it meant keeping her safe. It’s not a grand, heroic notion. It’s a raw truth that crawls beneath my skin, more instinct than intention.

I’d protect her. I’d fight for her. I’d burn for her, if that’s what it took.

I wonder if she realizes what she does to me. How she unravels me with every soft word, every unguarded touch. How her very presence feels like a golden beacon of light shining on me – a light I never thought I’d deserve.

The kiss is urgent, demanding, and I melt into it like petals wilting beneath the heat of the sun.

You’re not a hero, Bastian Lightcroft. You’re a weapon. And weapons don’t get to choose where they strike.

A villain’s path is often paved with the best intentions.

Flowers don’t bloom for admiration, but they’re worshiped for their beauty.

I’ve been adored, pursued, worshiped – yet I have never belonged to anyone.

Men always underestimate me. They see someone delicate, not dangerous. I hate that.

Bastian Lightcroft isn’t just someone who takes. He keeps. He protects.

I shouldn’t have kissed him. I know that. But something inside me feels irrevocably changed, like I’ve crossed a line I’ll never come back from.

She’s all contradictions. Soft but stubborn. Gentle but unshaken. She carries herself like she’s delicate, but I’ve seen the way she stands her ground – not with force, but with a quiet defiance that never wavers. Maybe that’s what draws me to her – the quiet kind of resilience that bends but never breaks.

Because you bloom, despite all the rot in this world.

But Bastian Lightcroft is temptation incarnate – he makes me forget that the first bite is always the sweetest before the poison takes hold.

I don’t deserve her softness. I was meant for darkness and damnation, not the delicate hands of a woman who makes flowers bloom wherever she walks.