Love, in its own nature, demands the perfecting of the beloved.
The death of a beloved is an amputation.
I have been wandering to find him and my happiness is so great that it even weakens me like a wound. And this is the marvel of marvels, that he called me Beloved, me who am but as a dog.
The promise, made when I am in love, to be true to the beloved as long as I live, commits me to being true even if I cease to be in love.
To be in love involves the most irresistible conviction that one will go on being in love until one dies, and that possession of the beloved will confer, not merely frequent ecstasies, but settled, fruitful, deep-rooted, lifelong happiness.
And this is the marvel of marvels; that he called me Beloved.
Beloved," said the Glorious One, "unless thy desire had been for me thou wouldst not have sought so long and so truly. For all find what they truly seek.