Victorian Era Love Quotes

An unhappy woman with access to weed killer had to be watched carefully.

Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hill-side— And then come back down. Singing: "There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she! She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea. (from poem 'The Forsaken Merman')

I’m talking about the language of flowers. It’s from the Victorian era, like your name. If a man gave a young lady a bouquet of flowers, she would race home and try to decode it like a secret message. Red roses mean love; yellow roses infidelity. So a man would have to choose his flowers carefully.

I’m an idiot for trying to avoid these feelings because they have caused me pain in the past.

My intention in writing this book is not to hunt and name the killer. I wish instead to retrace the footsteps of five women, to consider their experiences within the context of their era, and to follow their paths through both the gloom and the light. They were worth more to us than the empty human shells we have taken them for: they were children who cried for their mothers; they were young women who fell in love; they endured childbirth and the deaths of parents; they laughed and celebrated Christmas. They argued with their siblings, they wept, they dreamed, they hurt, they enjoyed small triumphs. The courses their lives took mirrored that of so many other women of the Victorian age, and yet so singular in the way they ended. It is for them that I write this book. I do so in the hope that we may now hear their stories clearly and give back to them that which was so brutally taken away with their lives: their dignity.

I want morning and noon and nightfall with you. I want your tears, your smiles, your kisses...the smell of your hair, the taste of your skin, the touch of your breath on my face. I want to see you in the final hour of my life...to lie in your arms as I take my last breath.

Thought I’d try something different for a change. The dress is from the vintage shop a few shops down. I love the Georgian and the Victorian era — Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, and all that,” Tess said excitedly, remembering her plan to read Jane Eyre that night. She pictured a night seated in her cosy armchair with a pot of Earl Grey tea, some gourmet sandwiches from the deli, reading until way past midnight.

Why, all our art treasures of to-day are only the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years ago. I wonder if there is real intrinsic beauty in the old soup-plates, beer-mugs, and candle-snuffers that we prize so now, or if it is only the halo of age glowing around them that gives them their charms in our eyes. The “old blue” that we hang about our walls as ornaments were the common every-day household utensils of a few centuries ago; and the pink shepherds and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand round now for all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand, were the unvalued mantel-ornaments that the mother of the eighteenth century would have given the baby to suck when he cried. Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of to-day always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimneypieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd? Will the white cups with the gold rim and the beautiful gold flower inside (species unknown), that our Sarah Janes now break in sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully mended, and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the house? That china dog that ornaments the bedroom of my furnished lodgings. It is a white dog. Its eyes blue. Its nose is a delicate red, with spots. Its head is painfully erect, its expression is amiability carried to verge of imbecility. I do not admire it myself. Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates me. Thoughtless friends jeer at it, and even my landlady herself has no admiration for it, and excuses its presence by the circumstance that her aunt gave it to her. But in 200 years’ time it is more than probable that that dog will be dug up from somewhere or other, minus its legs, and with its tail broken, and will be sold for old china, and put in a glass cabinet. And people will pass it round, and admire it. They will be struck by the wonderful depth of the colour on the nose, and speculate as to how beautiful the bit of the tail that is lost no doubt was. We, in this age, do not see the beauty of that dog. We are too familiar with it. It is like the sunset and the stars: we are not awed by their loveliness because they are common to our eyes. So it is with that china dog. In 2288 people will gush over it. The making of such dogs will have become a lost art. Our descendants will wonder how we did it, and say how clever we were. We shall be referred to lovingly as “those grand old artists that flourished in the nineteenth century, and produced those china dogs.” The “sampler” that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken of as “tapestry of the Victorian era,” and be almost priceless. The blue-and-white mugs of the present-day roadside inn will be hunted up, all cracked and chipped, and sold for their weight in gold, and rich people will use them for claret cups; and travellers from Japan will buy up all the “Presents from Ramsgate,” and “Souvenirs of Margate,” that may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as ancient English curios.

My friend is not "mistrustful" of me, no, because she don't fear I shall make mainprize of the stray cloaks & umbrellas down-stairs, or turn an article for "Colburn's" on her sayings & doings up-stairs--but, spite of that, she does mistrust . . . so mistrust my common sense; nay, uncommon and dramatic-poet's sense, if I am put on asserting it!--all which pieces of mistrust I could detect, and catch struggling, and pin to death in a moment, and put a label on, with name, genus & species, just like a horrible entomologist; only I wo'n't, because the first visit of the North wind will carry the whole tribe into the Red Sea--and those horns and tails and scalewings are best forgotten altogether.

I would describe myself as an academic and research superstar. I love learning and I am an extravert who loves to talk, too much at times, or so they tell me. I also love to debate. I have been attached to a university for years now. I don’t ever want to leave, except to time travel back to live in the Jane Austen era. I absolutely adore English literature, Shakespeare, anything Victorian. I have always loved words, grammar, Pride and Prejudice …

He lifted his head and said, 'Many waters cannot quench love. Neither can the floods drown it. It's stronger than death, Serafina. Stronger than anything.

The VICTORIAN ERA gave us many beautiful things----clothing, furniture, jewelry, etc....but one of the Most Special things came to us from ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. She wrote Sonnet No. 43: HOW DO I LOVE THEE, LET ME COUNT THE WAYS to her Beloved husband: ROBERT. It is from her writings called SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE. I was plundering through books in my library a little while earlier today, and found this Most Special Treasure. I want to encourage each of you to take a little break and read HOW DO I LOVE THEE...It is filled with emotions that can only be found when Love conquers one's whole being..... I HONOR the Memory of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. GOD gave her to us all, so that we can be touched at the core of each of our beings.

Hospitality requires too much work. Create a guest list, send invitations, plan a menu, make a playlist, shop for groceries, design a tablescape, unearth and polish the fancy dishes, wash and press the table linens, chill the dessert, prepare the meal, dress for the occasion, light the candles, wash the dishes, do the mopping, “Keep-a busy, Cinderelly!”—perhaps this is the list that churns in your head every time you think about hosting others in your home. If so, no wonder you’ve stamped “Too much work” over the whole thing. That list is nearly as long as the tax code and would take more than a pack of animated mice to help you complete it. Might I offer you a word of encouragement I hope will dowse the hot flames of frustration that surround your attempts at hosting? Unless Victorian-era aristocracy has suddenly made a comeback in your neighborhood, you might be making hospitality harder than it needs to be. In chaining yourself to a lengthy list of to-dos, you may inadvertently lose sight of the whole point of hospitality: to welcome the stranger. Don’t make the experience about you, make it about them. Remember, Leviticus 19:34 kind of hospitality leads with ’āhaḇ love. It chooses service over performance, present over perfect.

«Io non ho mai fatto intendere nulla a miss Harrison – sussurrò contro la sua pelle – l'ho sempre rifiutata come avete visto voi stessa». «Forse vi devo anche ricordare che nel nostro accordo c'è la libertà di non essere fedeli l'uno all'altra?» disse ancora la donna. Ma la sua voce era roca, disturbata dal calore del corpo di Roderick e dal suo profumo. «E io non intendo avvalermi di tale clausola» confermò lui con voce rotta. «Perché non dovreste farlo?». Scese un silenzio denso durante il quale le braccia forti del conte Chesterton non la lasciarono libera e le sue labbra cominciarono a baciare le sue spalle nude per poi salire verso il collo e arrivare all'orecchio. «Perché sono innamorato di te» soffiò pianissimo. Elinor percepì il calore del suo respiro dolce e fu invasa dal suo profumo e dalla confusione. «Perché l'unica donna che mi accende i sensi – riprese lui – l'unica donna che voglio nella mia vita e nel mio letto sei tu, le altre non riesco nemmeno più a vederle». Elinor sentì che presto avrebbe ceduto al pianto. La confusione che stava straziando la sua anima stava diventando insopportabile. Avrebbe voluto dirgli che anche lei era innamorata di lui, che lui era l'unico che occupava i suoi pensieri e le sue fantasie ma sapeva che se voleva mantenere fede a se stessa e provare a diventare la persona che aveva sempre desiderato diventare avrebbe dovuto lasciarlo, partire per Parigi, andare lontano da lui. La lontananza avrebbe procurato uno strappo tra di loro che sarebbe stato forse impossibile ricucire, anche se si fossero impegnati a mantenere un contatto attraverso il debole filo di un rapporto epistolare. Le lettere, però, erano solamente parole scritte su un pezzo di carta. Roderick Chesterton aveva chiaramente dichiarato di non essere incline a comunicare attraverso missive e lei sapeva che il motivo era il fatto che le parole, seppur scritte, non potevano compensare la presenza fisica di una persona, non potevano compensare il contatto di due corpi, i baci o gli abbracci, non potevano rendere forti le fondamenta di una relazione. Quelle stesse parole con il tempo sarebbero diventate solo simboli svuotati del loro stesso significato. In quel momento lui avrebbe sentito il bisogno di cercare il calore di un'altra donna, di un'altra relazione, sarebbe stato in quel momento che lo avrebbe perso definitivamente, senza possibilità di recupero. Le labbra del conte raggiunsero le sue baciandole con passione. Il sapore di crema della bocca di lei si mischiò ai baci bollenti e intensi che lui non interrompeva, mentre le sue braccia stringevano il corpo di Elinor quasi soffocandola. «Io amo te – concluse l'uomo con voce rotta senza smettere di baciarla – io voglio solo te».

Let no lady commence and continue a correspondence with a view to marriage, for fear that she may never have another opportunity. It is the mark of judgment and rare good sense to go through life without wedlock, if she cannot marry from love. Somewhere in eternity, the poet tells us, our true mate will be found. Do not be afraid of being an "old maid". The disgrace attached to that term long since passed away. Unmarried ladies of mature years are proverbially among the most intelligent, accomplished, and independent to be found in society.

I have, at last, come to understand my role. It is not to discourage your exuberance or your audacity. How could I want to when those are the very qualities I admire most? If I have lectured or harangued in the past, it is because I am afraid. Every moment of every day I am afraid. Afraid of losing that which I have come to realize I cannot live without. But I do not want a small and stifled version of you. I want you- in all your intrepid and audacious glory. I want you just as you are, the entirety of your chaos and your wildness. Your are the whirlwind I did not know I needed, but now that you are here, I will not be the one to ask you to be anything different than exactly as you are. More than anyone, I ought to understand that nature cannot be denied. And your nature is tumult.

If I could have created a perfect woman, I could never have imagined you. But that is my failure. Not yours.