Phases Of The Moon Love Quotes

But how can you love a person who is not whole? Because you, like the moon, are not only beautiful when full. In all of your phases and fractions and ivory-white pieces, I love you.

Our love is like the moon, changeable through all the phases of complete disappearance to full existence. It raises the sea up to the sky and makes the cool wind ripple its surface. Blindly sparkling it doesn’t let us see. I know I’m not the only one to love you, but your heart inquired only of me.

A friend. What is a friend, in a world where any friend may be a lover at a new phase of the moon? Not I, locked in my virility: no friend to Therem Harth, or any other of his race. Neither man nor woman, neither and both, cyclic, lunar, metamorphosing under the hand's touch, changelings in the human cradle, they were no flesh of mine, no friends; no love between us.

I’ve raised her, just as much as my parents raised me. I’ve loved her, lost sleep worrying about her, taken care of her when she was sick, suffered through embarrassing but informative anatomical conversations. If that doesn’t make her mine, I don’t know what would. And at least I got to skip the messy-diaper-and-two-A.M.-feeding phase.

the moon has different phases during the month she waxes and wanes and on some nights she hides from me you too have different phases during the month sometimes you are happy sometimes you are sad and sometimes you hide from me and I keep waiting for the moon and you

There was nothing about you that was ever wrong in the first place. You were not made in error; there is no mistaking that everything you are was intended. The night loves all of the moon and her many phases.

I realized that I’ll phase back again and this state of elation I have when I’m with you will be over. I’m not ready for it to end. As amazing as all of this is, it’s not complete. I’m so limited on the time we do have that I try to live each moment when we’re together. I never know when it’s gonna be our last.

The moon is a reminder that no matter what phase I am in, I am still whole.

This is my siren, my obsession, the love of my life, Deva.

There was nothing about you that was ever wrong in the first place. You were not made in error; there is no mistaking that everything you are was intended. The night loves all of the moon and her many phases.

Once, he'd loved the ocean. Loved seeing it every morning, every night. Seeing all its facets, all its faces. Not many people knew what the sea looked like in all seasons, under all phases of the moon. But he did. Now he knew the ocean was as dangerous as a sleeping volcano. At peace, it was magnificent. But when it wanted to, it could bring down kingdoms. Five years ago, it had brought down the small, strange kingdom of Clock Island.

Cage,” I sighed. “It’s like you want to lose your hands.” “I love you saying my name,” he admitted, flashing me a smile. “Although my full name is Micajah. I usually hate it, but I have no doubt I would love it on your lips.

It is naive to think you know someone so well. To think that whatever time you have shared in knowing their habits, their history, their stories, their weaknesses, their strengths, their wounds, and deepest corners of their heart could ever sum them up-- is unjust. It is a shame to be unaware of the shifts and changes that happen every day, every moment, right before your eyes. The little crinkles around her eyes that get ever-so-slightly deeper and wiser. The silver linings of her hair. The wonders of time and how they show their presence in such ways. You may think that a flower is simply a flower. A flower that looks and smells just as simply as it always has. Or that the ocean is simply salt water and blue. The flower is always moving, changing, blossoming, and giving life to the birds and the bees. The ocean's tides rise and fall with the phases of the moon. The currents change direction. And depending on how the sun hits the water, the colors and shades of blue are in fact, infinite. Everything around you and everyone is always changing. Take time to smell the roses. Take time to watch the tide. Take time to see your love with new eyes. It would be a shame to miss it.

Hearth-brothers, or friends,” he said, and saying it was remote, out of reach, two feet from me in a tent eight feet across. No answer to that. What is more arrogant than honesty? Cooled, I climbed into my fur bag. “Good night, Ai,” said the alien, and the other alien said, “Good night, Harth.” A friend. What is a friend, in a world where any friend may be a lover at a new phase of the moon? Not I, locked in my virility: no friend to Therem Harth, or any other of his race. Neither man nor woman, neither and both, cyclic, lunar, metamorphosing under the hand’s touch, changelings in the human cradle, they were no flesh of mine, no friends; no love between us.

There are Californians who waiver in their allegiance to the climate of California. Sometimes the climate of San Francisco has made me cross. Sometimes I have thought that the winds in summer were too cold, that the fogs in summer were too thick. But whenever I have crossed the continent—when I have emerged from New York at ninety-five degrees, and entered Chicago at one hundred degrees—when I have been breathing the dust of alkali deserts and the fiery air of sagebrush plains—these are the times when I have always been buoyed up by the anticipation of inhaling the salt air of San Francisco Bay. If ever a summer wanderer is glad to get back to his native land, it is I, returning to my native fog. Like the prodigal youth who returned to his home and filled himself with husks, so I always yearn in summer to return to mine, and fill myself up with fog. Not a thin, insignificant mist, but a fog—a thick fog—one of those rich pea-soup August fogs that blow in from the Pacific Ocean over San Francisco. When I leave the heated capitals of other lands and get back to California uncooked, I always offer up a thank-offering to Santa Niebla, Our Lady of the Fogs. Out near the Presidio, where Don Joaquin de Arillaga, the old comandante, revisits the glimpses of the moon, clad in rusty armor, with his Spanish spindle-shanks thrust into tall leathern boots—there some day I shall erect a chapel to Santa Niebla. And I have vowed to her as an ex-voto a silver fog-horn, which horn will be wound by the winds of the broad Pacific, and will ceaselessly sound through the centuries the litany of Our Lady of the Fogs. Every Californian has good reason to be loyal to his native land. If even the Swiss villagers, born in the high Alps, long to return to their birthplace, how much more does the exiled Californian yearn to return to the land which bore him. There are other, richer, and more populous lands, but to the Californian born, California is the only place in which to live. And to the returning Californian, particularly if he be native-born, the love of his birthplace is only intensified by visits to other lands. Why do men so love their native soil? It is perhaps a phase of human love for the mother. For we are compact of the soil. Out of the crumbling granite eroded from the ribs of California’s Sierras by California’s mountain streams—out of earth washed into California’s great valleys by her mighty rivers—out of this the sons of California are made, brain, and muscle, and bone. Why then should they not love their mother, even as the mountaineers of Montenegro, of Switzerland, of Savoy, lover their mountain birth-place? Why should not exiled Californians yearn to return? And we sons of California always do return; we are always brought back by the potent charm of our native land—back to the soil which gave us birth—and at the last back to Earth, the great mother, from whom we sprung, and on whose bosom we repose our tired bodies when our work is done.

Dear ________, Is it so wrong to want to be to you what the moon is to the trees? To want for you to wake up in your darkest hour and need me? And eventually in your lightest hours, to know I am there without seeing me? To need me the same through every phase- everytime I change? But sadly love, the moon may never meet the trees for they live in different worlds just as you and I for now and forever. You can't breath in mine and I cannot breath at all. But know my love, if I could escape their chains I would screw them all and fall unto your gravity- my paradise would be to forever see you and you me as I soar in orbit around you,. I would say that to know your love for me exists would soothe this pain but I fear it would only hurt. And so for that I hope you never know who wrote this to you for I could not bear risking you the same pain. Yours truly, _______________________

Love flows out of these luminous places Love lies down in the deep of the sea Falls out of the sky in millions of pieces on me I've been over these highways for years in the dark Crisscrossing the land like a stitch on the wound Rolling through the night while millions were sleeping Under every phase of the moon Under every phase of the moon All that I am is a dream that I had One morning so early and blue It flew over the river and the freezing bus stops On a song that I sang to you On a song that I sang to you Love flows out of these luminous places Love lies down in the deep of the sea Falls out of the sky in millions of pieces on me

I love the fact that the moon is imperfect but it still shines. Shine bright in all the phases of your life...

The bee flew past, buzzing loudly. They could feel the wind from its wings as it zoomed into the bee nest. Kate furrowed her brow. “I don’t know, they seem to ignore us like regular bees would.”  “Yeah,” Jack said, “they are bee-having normally.”  Kate giggled. “Bee-hiving normally.”  “But they DO have red eyes,” Mom said, “maybe they’ve been bee-witched!”  Dad groaned at Mom. “You too?” “What's wrong hub-bee?” Mom asked with a smirk.  Dad rolled his eyes. “No more please!”  “What?” Mom said, “can’t you tell that I’ve POLLEN in love with you?”  Dad covered his ears, and the kids laughed.  Mom continued. “Because you’re my honey.”  Dad cringed again. “Dad,” Jack said, “if you don’t like her jokes tell her to buzz off.”  Kate laughed. “Yeah, maybe you guys aren't in the... HONEY-moon phase anymore.”  “Don’t be a bay-bee,” Mom said to Dad, “bee positive!”  “AAAH!” Dad yelled. “Stop, stop!”  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked, “Do these jokes sting?”  Jack and Kate cracked up and even Mom started laughing her head off while Dad stood there with his hands over his ears saying, “Lalala! I can’t hear you!” When he noticed they had all stopped talking, he took his hands down. “Finally. You guys were bee-ing annoying.” They had a final laugh, then walked closer to the bee nest, to get a better look. Mom tapped Dad on the shoulder. “Do you like my hair today?”  Dad looked confused for a moment. “Uh... yes? It's very nice. You always look nice.”  Mom smiled at him. “Thank you dear, I just wanted to know if I needed to honeycomb it.

Yeah,” Jack said, “they are bee-having normally.”  Kate giggled. “Bee-hiving normally.”  “But they DO have red eyes,” Mom said, “maybe they’ve been bee-witched!”  Dad groaned at Mom. “You too?” “What's wrong hub-bee?” Mom asked with a smirk.  Dad rolled his eyes. “No more please!”  “What?” Mom said, “can’t you tell that I’ve POLLEN in love with you?”  Dad covered his ears, and the kids laughed.  Mom continued. “Because you’re my honey.”  Dad cringed again. “Dad,” Jack said, “if you don’t like her jokes tell her to buzz off.”  Kate laughed. “Yeah, maybe you guys aren't in the... HONEY-moon phase anymore.”  “Don’t be a bay-bee,” Mom said to Dad, “bee positive!”  “AAAH!” Dad yelled. “Stop, stop!”  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked, “Do these jokes sting?”  Jack and Kate cracked up and even Mom started laughing her head off while Dad stood there with his hands over his ears saying, “Lalala! I can’t hear you!

What's wrong hub-bee?” Mom asked with a smirk.  Dad rolled his eyes. “No more please!”  “What?” Mom said, “can’t you tell that I’ve POLLEN in love with you?”  Dad covered his ears, and the kids laughed.  Mom continued. “Because you’re my honey.”  Dad cringed again. “Dad,” Jack said, “if you don’t like her jokes tell her to buzz off.”  Kate laughed. “Yeah, maybe you guys aren't in the... HONEY-moon phase anymore.”  “Don’t be a bay-bee,” Mom said to Dad, “bee positive!”  “AAAH!” Dad yelled. “Stop, stop!”  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked, “Do these jokes sting?”  Jack and Kate cracked up and even Mom started laughing her head off while Dad stood there with his hands over his ears saying, “Lalala! I can’t hear you!

To her, Alex was like the moon. Distant, cold, and lonesome, but he was breathtakingly beautiful and exuded a light that always warmed her heart. He was ever-changing and the light that he exuded changed all the time. Despite that, she managed to embrace all those sides of him no matter when he was shining brightly or when his light dimmed like the full moon turning to its waning crescent phase. But this time, she failed. When he lost all his warmth and light, she started to tremble in fear, like how people only appreciated the moon when it exuded beauty and light and shunned and ignore it when what it showed was its mere dark side. She felt like she had done that to him tonight-when the moon turned dark, she feared him.

I ABHOR SOLAR ECLIPSES Eight different phases, Gibbous or Horned, eight different faces, with deception, it is adorned. The Moon is a counterfeit, is it not? Symbol of concord, but its larceny is caught; The Moon is ugly, is it not? Symbol of femininity, but its beauty is bought. For the lovers to stare at, for the forlorn to glare at, for the lost to seek, for the harmonious to keep. Even so, I resent the Moon, for its illumination is rented. I despise the Moon, for Its lustre is borrowed. I loathe the Moon, for it is in debt. I dread the Moon, for it is nothing, but dead. It is the Sun that I love, the giving star. The symbol of blazing spirit, mightiest, even though afar. It isn’t looked at enough, but every day, it still shows up; It isn’t relished as much, but every day, it still comes up. Its warmth is taken for granted, its incandescence is circumvented, its radiance is sidestepped, its intensity is toyed with. Yet it extends, its very own golden arms, deep into oceans and all across farms. It lends to the moon, it tends to the earth, it provides, it gives, for nothing in return. The Sun is beautiful, The Sun is magnificent, The Sun is alive, The Sun is proficient. Perhaps it is human tendency, to be deceived by appearance. The Moon is an accessory, The Sun is perseverance.

Life is a common good, it inheres in man and beast and passes from one to another, from body to body, this is how souls travel. In nature, everything is constantly changing, nothing is lost. The soul, that is, what constitutes life, is like wax: it retains its identity but only changes shape and constantly appears as new individuals. This is the nature of being: nothing in the world remains in one state, everything flows, every phenomenon is in progress, time itself moves steadily, like a river. Night turns into day, day into night, the moon has different phases, the year has different seasons. Nor will our bodies remain tomorrow what they are today or what they were yesterday. How many changes does a person undergo in the course of life, from fetus through infancy, crawling, maturity, aging, and unto death! And the whole universe. According to theory of the four elements, everything that exists arises from these very basic elements, and everything then turns into building material. “To be born”means “to begin to be something else.”“To die”means “to stop being what you used to be.”The ingredients are interchangeable, but matter remains the same. What does geology prove? Eternal transformations of the earth. There were seas, and now there are no seas; there were mountains and they have vanished; rivers flowed and dried up; volcanoes erupted and cooled. And that’s just the inanimate nature for you! The law of change in the animal world is even clearer. Caterpillars turn into butterflies, tadpoles into frogs, larvae into bees. Human societies and states are governed by the same principle. Troy has fallen, Pythagoras said to Numa Pompilius, and it is from that fall, thanks to Aeneas, the progenitor of the Julian house, that the Roman Empire will be reborn. It will be very powerful. Pythagoras did not say what would happen to Rome next. After all, everything changes? Yes, everything changes, the golden age has passed, the iron age has come. Therefore, I tell you, do not eat meat, concluded Pythagoras. And Numa Pompilius, having heard his teachings, came to Rome, instituted civilization there, and instructed a nation of warriors in the ways of peaceful coexistence.

The moon goddesses clap now, singing the Ghanaian adage, “The moon moves slowly, but it gets across the village.” From new to full, each takes a turn as a different phase of Luna. The heavenly bodies dance in the moonlight, singing your name. Tell them in their newness what desires you are calling in. Tell them in their fullness what blocks you are releasing.

But underneath all their feminist empathy and altruistic gestures were a bunch of pompous egoistic jerks who honestly thought the Moon was theirs to give the women in their lives. It was a phase that didn’t last long because women got sick of them and went to find guys with a Harley. As for the sensitive men, they’re probably the bastards who bought all those Air Supply records. That might explain it.

I need to hear that from you every single day. I love you, zaya. I will love you until I breathe my last breath, and even then I’ll still love you. You are the reason my heart beats; you are the reason I wake up each and every morning.

Moon has different Phases but it's always alluring, Just as You are.