Saint Valentine Quotes

You can choose faith or you can choose fear. But only one will bring what you long for.

Did you send candy and flowers on Valentine's Day, Wells? It's okay, you know. He was a saint.

To forget easily is not a gift I am blessed with, The winters and those valentines, I did my loving all the time, But now the difference, She sits in heaven with saint valentine,

Someone once said hell was other people. They were right. Specifically, hell was watching other people swan around an ice rink, drinking hot chocolate and making googly eyes at each other like they were in the middle of a goddamn Hallmark movie. It wasn’t even Christmas season, for fuck’s sake. It was worse. It was Valentine’s Day. A muscle flexed in my jaw as Bridget’s laughter floated over, joined by Steffan’s deeper laugh, and the urge to murder someone—someone male with blond hair and a name that began with S—intensified. What was so fucking hilarious, anyway? I couldn’t imagine anything being that funny, least of all something Steffan the Saint said.

It is not lust that disunites, dissolves and annihilates. It is rather the mesmerizing complications of sentimentality, artificial jealousies, words that inebriate and deceive, the rhetoric of parting and eternal fidelities, literary nostalgia – all the histrionics of love.

We are at the beginning of a springtime; we are lacking in solar profusion, that is, a great deal of spilled blood.

In The Garret Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, All fashioned and filled, long ago, By children now in their prime. Four little keys hung side by side, With faded ribbons, brave and gay When fastened there, with childish pride, Long ago, on a rainy day. Four little names, one on each lid, Carved out by a boyish hand, And underneath there lieth hid Histories of the happy band Once playing here, and pausing oft To hear the sweet refrain, That came and went on the roof aloft, In the falling summer rain. 'Meg' on the first lid, smooth and fair. I look in with loving eyes, For folded here, with well-known care, A goodly gathering lies, The record of a peaceful life-- Gifts to gentle child and girl, A bridal gown, lines to a wife, A tiny shoe, a baby curl. No toys in this first chest remain, For all are carried away, In their old age, to join again In another small Meg's play. Ah, happy mother! Well I know You hear, like a sweet refrain, Lullabies ever soft and low In the falling summer rain. 'Jo' on the next lid, scratched and worn, And within a motley store Of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn, Birds and beasts that speak no more, Spoils brought home from the fairy ground Only trod by youthful feet, Dreams of a future never found, Memories of a past still sweet, Half-writ poems, stories wild, April letters, warm and cold, Diaries of a wilful child, Hints of a woman early old, A woman in a lonely home, Hearing, like a sad refrain-- 'Be worthy, love, and love will come,' In the falling summer rain. My Beth! the dust is always swept From the lid that bears your name, As if by loving eyes that wept, By careful hands that often came. Death canonized for us one saint, Ever less human than divine, And still we lay, with tender plaint, Relics in this household shrine-- The silver bell, so seldom rung, The little cap which last she wore, The fair, dead Catherine that hung By angels borne above her door. The songs she sang, without lament, In her prison-house of pain, Forever are they sweetly blent With the falling summer rain. Upon the last lid's polished field-- Legend now both fair and true A gallant knight bears on his shield, 'Amy' in letters gold and blue. Within lie snoods that bound her hair, Slippers that have danced their last, Faded flowers laid by with care, Fans whose airy toils are past, Gay valentines, all ardent flames, Trifles that have borne their part In girlish hopes and fears and shames, The record of a maiden heart Now learning fairer, truer spells, Hearing, like a blithe refrain, The silver sound of bridal bells In the falling summer rain. Four little chests all in a row, Dim with dust, and worn by time, Four women, taught by weal and woe To love and labor in their prime. Four sisters, parted for an hour, None lost, one only gone before, Made by love's immortal power, Nearest and dearest evermore. Oh, when these hidden stores of ours Lie open to the Father's sight, May they be rich in golden hours, Deeds that show fairer for the light, Lives whose brave music long shall ring, Like a spirit-stirring strain, Souls that shall gladly soar and sing In the long sunshine after rain

We bow with respect and gratitude before all the great human souls of the past and present - the sages, the righteous, the prophets, the saints of all continents and all epochs throughout the whole of human history - and we are ready to learn from them all that they wish and are able to teach, but we have only one sole Initiator or Lord; we are obliged to reiterate this for the sake of certainty.

And then he saw her burning eyes. They gazed at him calmly and he saw in them benediction. He fell to his knees before her, pressing his face to her purple-velvet-clad-belly. "Séraphine, Séraphine, Séraphine. O most beloved of women, most fiery of saints, never leave me, please. I'll erect columns of white marble to you, build gardens of delight for you, cause ships to sail and warriors to rise for you, if you'll only remain by my side." She smiled down at him and cupped his cheeks. "Valentine, do you love me?" Ah, God, it was like a shot to the gut. He squeezed tight his eyes. To come so close and lose her because of this. "If I were able I would love you as no man has ever loved a woman since the beginning of time." She knelt then to face him and whispered, "But you are able." He clutched her. He wouldn't let her go, no, not even when she realized... "Séraphine, my darling, burning one, do you not remember? I told you, so long ago now, that I lacked that part. I cannot-" "But you can, Valentine." She touched a finger to his cheek and then showed it to him. He blinked. Her finger was wet. His eyes were wet. She smiled at him, his burning Séraphine, and it was as if the night sky were ablaze. "You love me." "I love you," he said in wonder, and felt his chest fill with warmth. "I love you." "And I love you," she whispered, her hands cupping his face. So he kissed her until she was limp and pliable and so very hot against him, and then he purred into her ear, "Does that mean you'll become my duchess, darling Bridget Crumb?" And when she sighed back, "Oh, yes, Val," he picked her up and carried her off to have his wicked, wicked way with her. Because he might have a heart now but some things weren't ever going to change.

There was a short railway official travelling up to the terminus, three fairly short market-gardeners picked up two stations afterwards, one very short widow lady going up from a small Essex town, and a very short Roman Catholic priest going up from a small Essex village. When it came to the last case, Valentin gave it up and almost laughed. The little priest was so much the essence of those Eastern flats; he had a face as round and dull as a Norfolk dumpling; he had eyes as empty as the North Sea; he had several brown-paper parcels, which he was quite incapable of collecting. The Eucharistic Congress had doubtless sucked out of their local stagnation many such creatures, blind and helpless, like moles disinterred. Valentin was a skeptic in the severe style of France, and could have no love for priests. But he could have pity for them, and this one might have provoked pity in anybody. He had a large, shabby umbrella, which constantly fell on the floor. He did not seem to know which was the right end of his return ticket. He explained with a moon-calf simplicity to everybody in the carriage that he had to be careful, because he had something made of real silver "with blue stones" in one of his brown-paper parcels. His quaint blending of Essex flatness with saintly simplicity continuously amused the Frenchman till the priest arrived (somehow) at Tottenham with all his parcels, and came back for his umbrella.

To lovers out there … One day we must break away from the myths that if you single and not dating. It means you are well mannered , raised well and you are a good person. If you’re dating then you are ratchet, wild, fast forward and you like things. Most people who are not dating is not by choice but is by circumstance . Some are not dating because they can’t find right partners. Some are in the closet. Some they fear to be heart broken, pregnancy ,commitment, to be burden. Some are busy don’t have time. Some don’t have money. Dating doesn’t make people hoes. Not dating it doesn’t make people saints either.  We should stop bad mouthing, slandering, name calling, slut shamming people who are trying their best to find right partners or to find love. Especial when we can’t do what they are doing because of our fears, even thou we also want what they want. To be loved .

Don’t you realize that you get missions that feel bigger than you because you’re bigger than you realize? You never stop. You care for the sake of caring. You want to fix Dorothy Gale and Oscar as much as you want to help the transportation problem. You are everything Saint Valentine needs in an agent. You’re motivated for the right reasons. You use your heart with your head. You know how to employ your resources. “This mission is a lot for one person, but you’re not alone, and you’re a master at leading.

Two Valentines are actually described in the early church, but they likely refer to the same man — a priest in Rome during the reign of Emperor Claudius II. According to tradition, Valentine, having been imprisoned and beaten, was beheaded on February 14, about 270, along the Flaminian Way. Sound romantic to you? How then did his martyrdom become a day for lovers and flowers, candy and little poems reading Roses are red… ? According to legends handed down, Valentine undercut an edict of Emperor Claudius. Wanting to more easily recruit soldiers for his army, Claudius had tried to weaken family ties by forbidding marriage. Valentine, ignoring the order, secretly married young couples in the underground church. These activities, when uncovered, led to his arrest. Furthermore, Valentine had a romantic interest of his own. While in prison he became friends with the jailer’s daughter, and being deprived of books he amused himself by cutting shapes in paper and writing notes to her. His last note arrived on the morning of his death and ended with the words “Your Valentine.” In 496 February 14 was named in his honor. By this time Christianity had long been legalized in the empire, and many pagan celebrations were being “christianized.” One of them, a Roman festival named Lupercalia, was a celebration of love and fertility in which young men put names of girls in a box, drew them out, and celebrated lovemaking. This holiday was replaced by St. Valentine’s Day with its more innocent customs of sending notes and sharing expressions of affection. Does any real truth lie behind the stories of St. Valentine? Probably. He likely conducted underground weddings and sent notes to the jailer’s daughter. He might have even signed them “Your Valentine.” And he probably died for his faith in Christ.

Sacred music in concerts, a drawing of a saint, Valentine's Day cards have all been banned from public schools in recent times. What is taught in such prohibitions is not state neutrality but state disdain for religion.

Humanity is mediocre. The majority of women are neither superior nor inferior to the majority of men. They are all equal. They all merit the same scorn.

Valentine of Rome (d. 269) A Christian priest in Rome, Valentine was known for assisting Christians persecuted under Claudius II. After being caught marrying Christian couples and helping Christians escape the persecution, Valentine was arrested and imprisoned. Although Emperor Claudius originally liked Valentine, he was condemned to death when he tried to convert the emperor. Valentine was beaten with stones, clubbed, and, finally, beheaded on February 14, 269. In the year 496, February 14 was named as a day of celebration in Valentine’s honor. He has since become the patron saint of engaged couples, beekeepers, happy marriages, lovers, travelers, young people, and greetings.

He wonders aloud at the origins of valentining. 'You're right,' Rachel says. 'It is a verb. Can be. And birds valentine each other, make mating calls. And usually mate in mid-February. You see?' 'But why Valentine?' asks Zach. 'Why valentining?' 'There were many Saint Valentines,' offers Tasha. 'I don't know what the link is between their martyrdom and love letters.' Zach is not very interested in the old tradition or the archaic verb. He is not bothered by the mating calls of passerines or the saints named Valentine and their associated symbols—he is merely fishing. Does Rachel think the tradition silly? If he were to send her a valentine, how strange would that be?

nobody was ever convicted for the “Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre,” the most famous gangland hit in American history. That said, Capone’s involvement is unquestioned, and it is widely believed that the 4 gunmen were McGurn, John Scalise, Albert Anselmi, and Frank Rio, the bodyguard who had saved Capone from Moran’s assassination attempt in 1926.

Mon premier se dirige. Mon deuxième est le contraire de rapide. Mon troisième est une plante aromatique. Mon tout est un prénom. On fête ceux qui le portent en février.

He severely forbade the custom of Valentines or giving boys, in writing, the names of girls to be admired and attended on by them; and, to abolish it

World is My Valentine (The Sonnet) My first and foremost love is society, Romance 'n things are second priority. My love seeks not to be loved in return, In fact, my love thrives in cold nonreciprocity. Mine is not to reason why, mine is to love and die, There's no greater love than that of a one-sided lover. The world is to me what Julia was to Saint Valentine, And what the impoverished were to Nicholas Santa. A world anemic in love needs a day to celebrate love, I am a lover eternal, for me every day is valentine's day. The world is my valentine, as such it is under my care, It's my duty to protect it from Claudius' mischievous play. I shall stop breathing before I break this pledge of mine. There's no greater power than the pledge of a lover divine.

she instantly trusted the man in front of her. He was love incarnate. He was like a religion, powerful, alluring, and supportive in the time of stress. He was faith and poetry. Saint Valentine was the stuff of legends.

If Valentine was a saint, chances are he died single and unmarried.

He and Susan had their first fight. I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day was what he’d said that started it. That Hallmark invented the holiday. “Hallmark’s older than I’d thought, then,” she said, “because Chaucer wrote Saint Valentine’s Day was when birds find their mates. There’s some reference in Hamlet, too, I think. And isn’t it Mother’s Day Hallmark invented? Mother’s Day, Valentine’s Day, they’re not things to believe in or not believe in. They don’t have a theology. They’re opportunities to make someone feel appreciated or to deny them that.

you only know that which is verified by the agreement of all forms of experience in its totality—experience of the senses, moral experience, psychic experience, the collective experience of other seekers for the truth, and finally the experience of those whose knowing merits the title of wisdom and whose striving has been crowned by the title of saint.

The world celebrates all sundries of days, like New Year’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, National Heroes’ Day, Valentine’s Day, All Saints’ Day, Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Day. There’s even one state that has Groundhog Day, another—National Hamburger Day. Hence, it stuns me no end why no “GOD’S DAY”: “To Him, the Highest, no honor we pay?

The Catholic Church’s policy of blaming women and sex for the ills of the world came to full fruition in the late Middle Ages and on into the Renaissance. At minimum, hundreds of thousands of innocent women and men were hunted down, tortured horribly, reduced to physical, social, and economic wreckage, or burnt at the stake for being “witches”. The Catholic Church, so obsessed with it’s paranoid, irrational, illogical, and superstitious fantasies, deliberately tortured and executed human beings for a period of three hundred years. All this carnage, due to the Church's fear of learning, kept Europe in the throws of abysmal ignorance for a thousand years. What has been lacking in the world since the fall of the ancient world is a logical view of the godhead. To the Greek and Roman mind the gods were utilitarian; that is they offered convenient place to appreciate human archetypes. Sin and redemption from sin had nothing to do with the gods. The classic Greek and Roman gods did not offer recompense in life nor a heavenly afterlife as reward. Rather morality was determined by your service to humanity whether it was in the form of philosophy, science, art, architecture, engineering, leadership, or conquest. In this way humanity could live up to great potential instead of wasting their energy on worship, and false promises For almost a thousand years after the fall of Rome the Catholic Church’s control of society and law guaranteed that woman’s position was degraded to that of a second class citizen, far below the ancient Roman standard. Every literary reference depicts women as inferior, unworthy of inheritance, foolish, lustful and sinful. The Church ordained wife beating and encouraged total obedience to fathers and husbands. Women generally could not own land, join a guild, nor earn money like a man. Despite all this, a series of events unfolded; the crusades, rebirth of classical ideas, the printing press, the Reformation, and the Renaissance, all of which began to move womankind forward. VALENTINES DAY CARDS The Lupercalia festival of the New Year became an orgiastic carnival. A lottery ceremony ensued where men chose their sexual partners by choosing small bits of paper naming each woman present. Later the Christians, trying to incorporate and tame this sexual festival substituted the mythical saint Valentine; and ‘the cards of lust’ evolved into the valentine cards we exchange today.

Mrs. Claus and Saint Valentine shouldn’t be killing people, according to the legal system,

Women are the Erinyes, Amazons, Semiramides, Joan of Arcs, Jeanne Hachettes; the Judiths and Charlotte Cordays, the Cleopatras and the Messalinas, the warriors who fight more ferociously than men, the lovers who incite, the destroyers who contribute to racial selection by smashing the fragile, acting through pride or desperation, “the desperation that gives the heart all its power.

Women are the Erinyes, Amazons, Semiramides, Joan of Arcs, Jeanne Hachettes; the Judiths and Charlotte Cordays, the Cleopatras and the Messalinas,9 the warriors who !ght more ferociously than men, the lovers who incite, the destroyers who contribute to racial selection by smashing the fragile, acting through pride or des- peration, “the desperation that gives the heart all its power.