5 December, 1839
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.
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