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Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing
He loved the twilight that surrounds
The border-land of old romance;
Where glitter hauberk, helm, and lance,
And banner waves, and trumpet sounds,
And ladies ride with hawk on wrist,
And mighty warriors sweep along,
Magnified by the purple mist,
The dusk of centuries and of song.
French is the language that turns dirt into romance.
Romance, like the rabbit at the dog track, is the elusive, fake, and never attained reward which, for the benefit and amusement of our masters, keeps us running and thinking in safe circles.
Romance is the glamour which turns the dust of every day life into a golden haze.
Romance is tempestuous. Love is calm.
A historical romance is the only kind of book where chastity really counts.
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys.
It's easy to fall in love. The hard part is finding someone to catch you.
Two things only a man cannot hide: that he is drunk and that he is in love.