Dearest, - I wish I had the gift of making rhymes, for
methinks there is poetry in my head and heart since
I have been in love with you.
You are a Poem.
Of what sort, then? Epic?
Mercy on me, no! A sonnet?
No; for that is too labored and artificial.
You are a sort of sweet, simple, gay, pathetic ballad,
which Nature is singing, sometimes with tears,
sometimes with smiles, and sometimes with intermingled
smiles and tears.