A young and fragrant vine, you have covered it with beauty and freshness.

You have diffused within it an atmosphere of spring.

You thought the cold mathematician, the stern philosopher could not feel, but I tell thee, child, we are the very ones that _can_ and _do_ feel.

There is as much difference between our love and the boyish passion which passes for love, as there is between the flash of the glowworm and the welding heat that fuses bars of steel.

Oh! Gabriella, do not laugh at this confession, or deem it lightly made.