What is this greatest of passions called love? There is no word harder to
get a satisfactory definition of. Because, whatever you say about it,
there comes quickly to your mind some one who loves you, or you think of
the passion that burns in your own heart for some one. And, as you think
of that, no words that anybody may use seem at all strong enough, or
tender enough, to tell what love is, as you know it in your own inner
heart.

Yet I think this much can be said--love is the tender, strong outgoing of
your whole being to another. It is a passion burning like a fire within
you, a soft-burning but intense fire within you, for some other one. Every
mention of that name stirs the flame into new burning. Every passing or
lingering thought of him or her is like fresh air making the flames leap
up more eagerly. And each personal contact is a clearing out of all the
ashes, and a turning on of all the draughts, to feed new oxygen for
stronger, fresher burning.

There are many other things that seem like love. Kindliness and
friendliness, and even intenser emotions, use love's name for themselves.
But though these have likenesses to love, they are not love. They have
caught something of its warm glow. A bit of the high coloring of its
flames plays on them. But they are not the real thing, only distant
kinsfolk. The severe tests of life quickly reveal their lack.

Love itself is really an aristocrat. It allows very, very few into its
inner circle, often only one. The real thing of love is never selfish. Now
we know very well that in the thick of life the fine gold of love gets
mixed up with the baser metals. It is very often overlaid, and shot
through with much that is mean and low. Rank selfishness, both the coarse
kind and the refined, cultured sort, seeks a hiding-place under its cloak.