Sweet Valentines Day Quotes

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Christ girl, Ι wasn't even going to bite you. Well, not the way you're thinking." "I'm flattered you want to fuck me as well as muder me. Really, Liam, that's sweet." He grinned. "Valentine's Day was just last month, after all.
Jeaniene Frost (One Foot in the Grave (Night Huntress, #2))
True love is like little roses, sweet, fragrant in small doses.
Ana Claudia Antunes (Pierrot & Columbine (The Pierrot´s Love Book 1))
I hope you feel better about yourself. I hope you feel alive. I hope that good things happen to you, and I hope that when the inevitable bad things happen you can handle them and learn a lesson and move on. I hope you know you're not alone and I hope you spend plenty of time with your family and/or friends and I hope you write more and get a seven-figure book deal. I hope next year no more celebrities die and I hope you get an iPhone if you want one. Or maybe a pony. I hope someone writes a song for you on Valentines Day that's a bit like Hey There Delilah, and I hope they have a good singing voice, or at least one better than mine. I hope that you accept yourself the way you are, and figure out that losing 20 pounds isn't going to magically make you love yourself. I hope you read a lot. I hope you don't have to almost die to figure out how valuable life is. I hope you find the perfect nail polish/digital camera/home/life partner. I hope you stop being jealous of others. I hope you feel good, about yourself and the people around you and the world. I hope you eat heaps of salt and vinegar chips because they're the best kind. I hope you accomplish all your hopes & dreams & aspirations and are blissfully happy & get married to Edward Cullen/George Clooney/Megan Fox/Angelina Jolie (delete whichever are inappropriate) & ride a pretty white horse into the sunset & I hope it's all sweet and wonderful because you deserve it because you did well this year in the face of sparkly vampires/great evil/low self-esteem.
Steph Bowe
Today's Valentine's Day. There's a whole day devoted solely to love. Does that make any sense? Nah. Love makes us all crazy. But it's fun too.
Lisa Greenwald (Sweet Treats & Secret Crushes)
Watching my parents I've learnt a lesson many do not recognize. True love is not signaled by romantic, candle light dinners, red roses glistening with dew, or even Valentine's day celebrations. While these things may accompany our feelings, love is truly more than all those! Love is being with your spouse even when its not pleasing. Sometimes, love is walking down the hall, with your spouse hanging onto your shoulders and walking at a turtle's pace down the hall, just because surgery made life a burden. Love is patient, love is kind, love is Jesus! May we always remember love is not always tied in bows!
NOT A BOOK
[Anna] In February, I woke up from a nap. A bouquet of flowers gathered from the various bushes and shrubs scattered around the island lay on the blanket beside me, a small length of rope wound around their stems. I found T.J. down at the shore. “Someone’s been checking the calendar.” He grinned. “I didn’t want to miss Valentine’s Day.” I kissed him. “You’re sweet to me.” Pulling me closer, he said, “It’s not hard, Anna.” I stared into T.J.’s eyes, and he started to sway. My arms went around his neck and we danced, moving in a circle, the sand soft and warm under our feet. “You don’t need music, do you?” “No,” T.J. said. “But I do need you.
Tracey Garvis Graves (On the Island (On the Island, #1))
Valentine's day: one day day to celebrate love, friendship, give hugs and say sweet things to your loved ones? C'mon, I need an entire year of that!
Rodolfo Peon
Although they probably know that some children were used and some children are used as miners, most adults are ignorant of the chocolate industry’s use of minors.
Mokokoma Mokhonoana (The Use and Misuse of Children)
The key to having a Happy Valentine's Day is to remember those sweet romance relationships of the past. Have a great Valentine's Day!
Amanda Forry-Fino
I think how heavenly it must be to nibble on tiny cakes and swirled caramels and plum ginger puffs all day. Tea with lemon petit fours in the afternoon; after-dinner mint truffles with butterscotch coffee in the evening. My mind swims with the notion of it. The easy, sugar-induced lull that would follow me into candy-tinted dreams each night. Life here, in Valentine's Town, would surely be simple and uncomplicated.
Shea Ernshaw (Long Live the Pumpkin Queen: Tim Burton’s The Nightmare Before Christmas)
My second crush, don't know, who you are, by thinking of you, my day pass. The things, the things, the things changed, forgot the first, second begins. The second crush, my second crush, don't know who you are, but, by thinking of you, my day pass. Who you are, i don't know, but seeing you shed tears. My feelings drop, water stops, in my eyes. The things, the things, the things changed. I fall in love, are you goddess or what. As i came near you, my heart beat rise. Want to stop my legs, but they attracts. Like your tears attract the sand, when they are falling on land. My heart, my heart, my heart beat rise, you came, you came, you are closer to my eyes. I see tears fallen on the ground, my love rotating around you round and round. Now, you are the first, you are the last, that i told you my sweet heart. When i see you first time, it was my last time, to fall in love, my dear valentine. The second crush, my second crush, don't know who you are, but, by thinking of you, my day pass. The things, the things, the things changed. Now, crush end, time spend, love start, now, you are my life part.:-)
Abhishek Singh Sikarwar
~A Rose~ In a rose can you see God's finger prints of eternity of creation of design of uniqueness of passion of pure love of silent beauty of gentle charm of warmth of sweet scent of an array of color In God's garden a rose grows a dazzling love gift we share with God heart to heart hand in hand God The Master Gardener of our souls.
Charles W. Warner (The Heartbeat of God: The Fiery Flame of Love)
Love is a sweet aroma, it fills the room with a wonderful atmosphere. Happy Valentines Day.
Euginia Herlihy
They know they're supposed to do something, but they're not sure what. And you know what they do when they're not sure-- of course you do: They either do the wrong thing or they do nothing, and it's a toss up as to which is worse.
Jill Conner Browne (The Sweet Potato Queens' Big-Ass Cookbook (and Financial Planner))
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
Louisa May Alcott (Little Women)
What was that? Valentine's Day? Her heart gave a little skip at the thought, she had never spent it in a romantic way before, usually the day meant sending and receiving cute Cupid cards and heart shaped sugar candies, but it was all in a platonic celebration of friendship. This time, it would not be like that, it would be ... special.
E.A. Bucchianeri (Brushstrokes of a Gadfly (Gadfly Saga, #1))
Well, I've never written a line of poetry in my life: it is not my way! But if I *did* write about you I shouldn't call you a paltry daffodil! I should liken you to a rose--one of those yellow ones, with a deep golden heart, and a sweet scent!" said Sir Bonamy, warming to the theme. "Nonsense!" she said briskly. "You would be very much more likely to call me a plum partridge, or a Spanish fritter!
Georgette Heyer (False Colours)
The phrase was so simple and for most women, so generic. Any other female would have laughed off such a question from a boy she had no interest in. But in my case, it was a landmark moment in my life. Number 23 had gone where no other man had gone before. Until then, my history with men had been volatile. Instead of a boyfriend or even a drunken prom date, my virginity was forfeited to a very disturbed, grown man while I was unconscious on a bathroom floor. The remnants of what could be considered high school relationships were blurry and drug infused. Even the one long-lasting courtship I held with Number 3 went without traditional dating rituals like Valentine’s Day, birthdays, anniversary gifts, or even dinner. Into young adulthood, I was never the girl who men asked on dates. I was asked on many fucks. I was a pair of tits to cum on, a mouth to force a cock down, and even a playmate to spice up a marriage. At twenty-four, I had slept with twenty-two men, gotten lustfully heated with countless more, but had never once been given flowers. With less than a handful of dates in my past, romance was something I accepted as not being in the cards for me. My personality was too strong, my language too foul, and my opinions too outspoken. No, I was not the girl who got asked out on dates and though that made me sad at times, I buried myself too deeply in productivity to dwell on it. But, that day, Number 23 sparked a fuse. That question showed a glimmer of a simplistic sweetness that men never gave me. Suddenly he went from being some Army kid to the boyfriend I never had.
Maggie Georgiana Young (Just Another Number)
This Butterfly Stings by Stewart Stafford The gold of my eye dances on stage for me, Her wings wafting behind her in the chorus, Yet none glimpsed that girl's beauty as I did, This butterfly flew solo in my mind's eye. For two years hence, I concealed my interest, Yet I gazed at her endlessly, so close yet apart, Places of learning changed, but she did not, I foolishly let fly Cupid's token to my inamorata. Seeing my love in a looking glass reflected, Shadow feelings illuminated St Valentine's Eve, My butterfly became a sullen stinging bee, Crushing my tender rose in pieces at my feet. Nor would her wicked scorn end there, She told her friends who joined in my shaming, For years after, turning my last shreds of adoration, Into contemptuous hatred of her existence. Truly no one can take away our memories, Where my former crush still dances on occasion, O sweet butterfly of my youth, one last wish, Never fly away from these fond recollections. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.
Stewart Stafford
Once I closed my eyes, it was like magic. I got to live world’s best life. Smiled at his smile. Wrote to him twenty times, and then knocked on wood when he replied. I didn’t wanna jinx it, I kept my fingers crossed. But secretly, I dreamt about our date at the coffee shop. I wished for him to find me in traffic on his way, Or maybe, on a stormy night of Valentine’s Day. This was the city of sweet sorrow, But when he walked in that jacket he borrowed, I dreamt of getting a new apartment near subway. Two blocks away from his favorite café. Wrapped in his arms, warm and safe, We’d sit across the fireplace, “I love you,” he’d say. I believe in miracles. I crossed my heart. I prayed, I was the one. It’s just so sweet when you’re blind in love. I imagined dancing with him in rain. Not rainbow, unicorns, fairytales, I dreamt about his blue jacket. I was pretending he didn’t see me cry, He already knew I was crazy for his smile. Then he broke my heart one more time, But I knocked on wood, because he replied. I believe in miracles. I crossed my heart. I knew I wasn’t not the one. But it’s still so sweet when you’re blind in love.
Snehil Niharika (That’ll Be Our Song)
was a little more important? I pulled at my tight-knit top, trying not to let him get under my skin. “For the record, that perm rod saved me from being knifed to death. Anyway, it sounds worse than it was.” “Worse than it was! Lady, that’s about as worse as it can get for a man.” He blew out a sigh. “I’d love to hear the full story on that one day.” I smiled sweetly. “If you’re nice to me, maybe one day I’ll tell it.
Arlene McFarlane (Murder, Curlers, and Cream (Valentine Beaumont, #1))
When I was in fifth grade, the class celebrated Valentines's Day by sending valentines to as many people as we wanted. If you were sweet on a girl, you would send one to her. You might send one to a friend on the football team telling him it was nice to be on the same team. I sent six valentines to myself so I would not be humiliated by receiving no valentines. Those were the only six valentines I received.
William Shatner (Live Long and . . . : What I Learned Along the Way)
The very next morning It was Valentine’s Day! They grabbed all their cards and went on their way. The classroom was decked out in red, pink, and white, with balloons and streamers, so festive and bright. Someone dropped by with a giant bouquet addressed to the teacher, who blushed right away. The card was signed “From a secret admirer,” but everyone knew it was Mr. O’Meyer! They played pin the heart and won goofy toys, and girls ran away from kissy-face boys. The art teacher came and painted kids’ faces. She put hearts on cheeks and sillier places! At last it was time to deliver the cards. Look! One for Lisa, Jim, and Bernard. They opened them up, read them and smiled, and laughed at the cards that were totally wild. Then they ate goodies, sweet cherries, and grapes, and drank punch with ice cubes in little heart shapes. And just when they thought the party was done, a knock on the door came at quarter past one. When what to their wondering eyes should appear, but the principal himself dressed in full Cupid gear! His arrows--how golden! His bow--curved and tight! The wig that he wore was a comical sight. He spoke not a word and was gone in a minute, leaving a present behind. Now what could be in it? They read Cupid’s note as he leapt down the hall: “Happy Valentine’s Day-- to one and to all!
Natasha Wing (The Night Before Valentine's Day (Reading Railroad Books))
Happy Valentine's Day, to whom, who holds the hands of beloved one, in its hands; and prayers and sweet wishes, for the best in the coming year, for whom, who has not that to celebrate this Day, today.
Ehsan Sehgal
She opened the fridge and took out butter and eggs and left them on the worktop. She filled the cups of four muffin trays with pink paper liners decorated with red and white hearts. She refused to dwell on the fact that Sunday was Valentine's Day, and that whichever customers bought one or more of her special sweetheart cupcakes tomorrow (strawberry center, white chocolate icing, sugar-paste heart on top) would in all likelihood be spending Valentine's Day with someone they loved, and who loved them back.
Roisin Meaney (Semi-Sweet)
Alice always had loved flowers. There was something about the blend of colors, the hidden roots, the twisting petals as they unfurled in the sun one by one. A symbol of femininity---how that which is delicate can also be strong. Whiskey in a teacup, as her aunt always said. Well, her aunt and Reese Witherspoon, but honestly, Aunt Charlotte had been saying that way back when Reese was still filming Sweet Home Alabama. Alice swept petals from the floor, beautiful yet fragmented evidence of the fullness the day had brought. She'd been running the Prickly Rose, a customizable bouquet shop on Magazine Street, alongside her aunt for several years now, and Valentine's Day always left plenty of cast-off remnants.
Ashley Clark (Where the Last Rose Blooms (Heirloom Secrets, #3))
CHOCOLATE BANANA PANCAKES WITH WHOLE GRAIN Ingredients: 1¼ cup whole wheat pastry flour 3 tbsp. cocoa powder 1½ tsp. ground cinnamon 1 tsp. baking soda ½ tsp. salt ¼ cup sugar 2 tbsp. butter, melted, plus more for pan ½ tsp. vanilla extract 1 cup milk 1 medium very ripe banana, mashed (about ½ cup) 1 egg Sliced bananas and chocolate syrup, for serving Directions: Whisk the flour, cocoa, soda, cinnamon, and salt in a bowl and then set it aside. Whisk sugar, 1 tbsp. butter, vanilla, milk, banana, and egg
Crazy World Publishing (Valentine’s Day Recipes: Surprise Your Lover with Sweet & Delicious Deserts You Can Make by Yourself (Valentine's Day, Cookies, Pancakes, Cake, Custard, Candy, Drink))
in another bowl until smooth. Slowly add dry ingredients to banana mixture, whisking until smooth. Heat a 12 inch non-stick skillet over medium heat; brush with melted butter. Working in batches, ladle about 1⁄4 cup of the batter for each pancake into skillet. Cook until bubbles form on tops of pancakes, this should take 2-3 minutes. Flip the pancakes and continue them cooking until the centre is cooked through, about 2 minutes more. Serve
Crazy World Publishing (Valentine’s Day Recipes: Surprise Your Lover with Sweet & Delicious Deserts You Can Make by Yourself (Valentine's Day, Cookies, Pancakes, Cake, Custard, Candy, Drink))
D’aron the Daring, Derring, Derring-do, stealing base, christened D’aron Little May Davenport, DD to Nana, initials smothered in Southern-fried kisses, dat Wigga D who like Jay Z aw-ite, who’s down, Scots-Irish it is, D’aron because you’re brave says Dad, No, D’aron because you’re daddy’s daddy was David and then there was mines who was named Aaron, Doo-doo after cousin Quint blew thirty-six months in vo-tech on a straight-arm bid and they cruised out to Little Gorge glugging Green Grenades and read three years’ worth of birthday cards, Little Mays when he hit those three homers in the Pee Wee playoff, Dookie according to his aunt Boo (spiteful she was, misery indeed loves company), Mr. Hanky when they discovered he TIVOed ‘Battlestar Galactica,’ Faggot when he hugged John Meer in third grade, Faggot again when he drew hearts on everyone’s Valentine’s Day cards in fourth grade, Dim Dong-Dong when he undressed in the wrong dressing room because he daren’t venture into the dark end of the gym, Philadelphia Freedom when he was caught clicking heels to that song (Tony thought he was clever with that one), Mr. Davenport when he won the school’s debate contest in eighth grade, Faggot again when he won the school’s debate contest in eighth grade, Faggot again more times than he cared to remember, especially the summer he returned from Chicago sporting a new Midwest accent, harder on the vowels and consonants alike, but sociable, played well with others that accent did, Faggot again when he cried at the end of ‘WALL-E,’ Donut Hole when he started to swell in ninth grade, Donut Black Hole when he continued to put on weight in tenth grade (Tony thought he was really clever with that one), Buttercup when they caught him gardening, Hippie when he stopped hunting, Faggot again when he became a vegetarian and started wearing a MEAT IS MURDER pin (Oh yeah, why you craving mine then?), Faggot again when he broke down in class over being called Faggot, Sissy after that, whispered, smothered in sniggers almost hidden, Ron-Ron by the high school debate team coach because he danced like a cross between Morrissey and some fat old black guy (WTF?) in some old-ass show called ‘What’s Happening!!’, Brainiac when he aced the PSATs for his region, Turd Nerd when he hung with Jo-Jo and the Black Bruiser, D’ron Da’ron, D’aron, sweet simple Daron the first few minutes of the first class of the first day of college.
T. Geronimo Johnson (Welcome to Braggsville)
My second crush, don’t know, who you are, by thinking of you, my day pass. The things, the things, the things changed, forgot the first, second begins. The second crush, my second crush, don’t know who you are, but, by thinking of you, my day pass. Who you are, i don’t know, but seeing you shed tears. My feelings drop, water stops, in my eyes. The things, the things, the things changed. I fall in love, are you goddess or what. As i came near you, my heart beat rise. Want to stop my legs, but they attracts. Like your tears attract the sand, when they are falling on land. My heart, my heart, my heart beat rise, you came, you came, you are closer to my eyes. I see tears fallen on the ground, my love rotating around you round and round. Now, you are the first, you are the last, that i told you my sweet heart. When i see you first time, it was my last time, to fall in love, my dear valentine. The second crush, my second crush, don’t know who you are, but, by thinking of you, my day pass. The things, the things, the things changed. Now, crush end, time spend, love start, now, you are my life part.:-)
Abhishek Kumar Singh
Artificial chocolate will never melt a person's heart.
Anthony T. Hincks
Sweet dreams are made on a bed of roses and a pillow of love.
Anthony T. Hincks
If you were not so gentle, If you were hard to please, If you were never patient And always ill at ease, If you were far from humble, If you could not forgive, If all you did was grumble And curse the life you live, If you were irreligious, If you were not composed, If you were quite ignoble, If you had not proposed, If you were daft as killdeer, If you were less than kind, If you were proud and pushy, I’d pay you little mind. And never would I ever Call you Valentine. But you are kind and gentle, So patiently at ease. You’re gracious, sweet, and humble. Not ever hard to please. You evince faith and service; They dictate how you live. Good will along with mercy Allow you to forgive. Despite the trials and heartaches, You count your blessings all. Despite the miles between us, Persistently you call. The gestures of affection. The compliments so kind. The selfless acts of service Endear you in my mind. And that, my dear, is why I Call you Valentine.
Richelle E. Goodrich (A Heart Made of Tissue Paper)
Well, I've never written a line of poetry in my life: it is not my way! But if I *did* write about you I shouldn't call you a paltry daffodil! I should liken you to a rose--one of those yellow ones, with a deep golden heart, and a sweet scent!" said Sir Bonamy, warming to the theme. "Nonsense!" she said briskly. "You would be very much more likely to call me a plump partridge, or a Spanish fritter!
Georgette Heyer (False Colours)
THE NEXT DAY WAS RAIN-SOAKED and smelled of thick sweet caramel, warm coconut and ginger. A nearby bakery fanned its daily offerings. A lapis lazuli sky was blanketed by gunmetal gray clouds as it wept crocodile tears across the parched Los Angeles landscape. When Ivy was a child and she overheard adults talking about their break-ups, in her young feeble-formed mind, she imagined it in the most literal of essences. She once heard her mother speaking of her break up with an emotionally unavailable man. She said they broke up on 69th Street. Ivy visualized her mother and that man breaking into countless fragments, like a spilled box of jigsaw pieces. And she imagined them shattered in broken shards, being blown down the pavement of 69th Street. For some reason, on the drive home from Marcel’s apartment that next morning, all Ivy could think about was her mother and that faceless man in broken pieces, perhaps some aspects of them still stuck in cracks and crevices of the sidewalk, mistaken as grit. She couldn’t get the image of Marcel having his seizure out of her mind. It left a burning sensation in the center of her chest. An incessant flame torched her lungs, chest, and even the back door of her tongue. Witnessing someone you cared about experiencing a seizure was one of those things that scribed itself indelibly on the canvas of your mind. It was gut-wrenching. Graphic and out-of-body, it was the stuff that post traumatic stress syndrome was made of.
Brandi L. Bates (Remains To Be Seen)