A poet once wrote of love:
Lovers have but the tendency to speak confessed words, for in true love we are idle and free.
Through love, all that is bitter will be sweet, Through love, the king will turn into a slave.
Now you make grow from me a thorn, now...a rose, now I smell the rose, ...now I feel the thorn!
The life of lovers is in death: you will not win the beloved's heart, unless you lose your own. So, why do you search my pockets and my sleeves?
-Jalaluddin Rumi (1207-1273 A.D.)