I saw clearly how the roses in my garden had long adored me and bidden me love; they lifted their heads and smiled as I came back from church.

I heard your name, "Melchior," chiming in the flower-bells; I saw it written on the clouds.

Yes, yes, I live, I am living, thanks to thee,--my poet, more beautiful than that cold, conventional Lord Byron, with a face as dull as the English climate.

One glance of thine, thine Orient glance, pierced through my double veil and sent thy blood to my heart, and from thence to my head and feet.
Ah! that is not the life our mother gave us.

A hurt to thee would hurt me too at the very instant it was given,--my life exists by thy thought only.