Quotes & Sayings About Promise Rings

Reaching down, he grabbed the man's ring. "They're promise rings," he whispered. Picking up the woman's, he lifted my right hand. Sliding it on my finger, he softly said, "You wear one." He slipped the man's on the ring finger of his right hand. "And I wear one." Smiling contently, he shook his head. "And we promise that no one comes between us. That we . . . belong to each other, and only each other. — S.C. Stephens

A wedding ring is a symbol of commitment; a promise, a pledge, and a vow. The promise is to forsake all others, to stay devoted and true; the pledge is to honor that promise selflessly, to see the whole thing through; and the vow is to keep that pledge unwaveringly, until the days are few. It is a mutual agreement to become one instead of two. — J.W. Lord

They're promise rings," he whispered. Picking up the woman's, he lifted my right hand. Sliding it on my finger, he softly said, "You wear one," he slipped the man's on the ring finger of his right hand, "and I wear one. — S.C. Stephens

The globe-trotter lives in a smaller world than the peasent. He is always breathing an air of locality. London is a place to be compared to Chicage; Chicago is a place, to be compared to Timbuctoo. But Timbuctoo is not a place, sonce there, at least, live men who regard it as the universe, and breathe, not an air of locality, but the winds of the world. The man in the saloon steamer has seen all the races of men; and is thinking of the things that devide men - diet, dress, decorum, rings in the nose as in Africa, or in the ears as in Europe, blue paint among the ancients, or red paint among the modern Britons. The man in the cabbage field has seen nothing at all; but he is thinking of the things that unite men - hunger and babies, and the beauty of women, and the promise or menace of the sky. — G.K. Chesterton

In the darkest corner of a darkened room, all Sherlock Homes stories begin. In the pregnant dim of gaslight and smoke, Holmes would sit, digesting the day's papers, puffing on his long pipe, injecting himself with cocaine. He would pop smoke rings into the gloom, waiting for something, anything, to pierce into the belly of his study and release the promise of adventure; of clues to interpret; of, at last he would plead, a puzzle he could not solve. And after each story he would return here, into the dark room, and die day by day of boredom. The darkness of his study was his cage, but also the womb of his genius. — Graham Moore

When would you like to go out with me so we can talk about it?" A grin flirts with his lips.
He's got her cornered.
And he knows it.
Janie chuckles, defeated. "You are such a bastard."
"When," he demands. "I promise, all my heart, I'll be your house elf for the rest of my life if I fail to meet you at the appointed date and time." He leans forward. "Promise," he says again. He holds up two fingers.
The bell rings.
They stand up.
She's not answering.
He comes around the table toward her and pushes her gently against the wall. Sinks his lips into hers.
He tastes like spearmint. She can't stop the flipping in her stomach.
He pulls back and touches her cheek, her hair. "When," he whispers. Urgently
She clears her throat and blinks. "A-a-after school works for me," she says. — Lisa McMann

The great miraculous bell of translucent ice is suspended in mid-air.
It rings to announce endings and beginnings. And it rings because there is fresh promise and wonder in the skies.
Its clear tones resound in the placid silence of the winter day, and echo long into the silver-blue serenity of night.
The bell can only be seen at the turning of the year, when the days wind down into nothing, and get ready to march out again.
When you hear the bell, you feel a tug at your heart.
It is your immortal inspiration. — Vera Nazarian

I wanted so much when I was young. I was an endless abyss of want, of need of desperate dreams for myself that defied logic. The promise of what was to come hung like rings around the moon on clear autumn nights; the future was unmistakeable. It was always there, glistening in the dark and suggesting that life was little more than climbing a ladder into the sky, where I could reach up with one hand and secure everything that I had ever hoped for in my grasping fingers.
Oh, I dreamed.
And they are not easy to give up, these dreams. — Nicole Baart

A tattoo is art and not a possession as love is beauty and intangible. A tattoo is a promise, not an accessory. — Danielle Valenilla