poem

The more I think of you, the more I

Love you; I cannot see how any one could

Hate you. You have always been to me an

honest, faithful friend, and I hope my love is not an

Object of contempt. It is true that Once I had said

I would never marry, but that was before

I loved you. The assertion you know was

utered in a bragging manner, in fact not but

a lie, and I do not know why I made it. If I

could even pluck up enough courage to

offer my hand I know very well you

would be surprised and I doubt if you

would accept it. I do not think I would

listen to a refusal from your lips and

thus make my whole life miserable. To die

without ever expressing my love for you

would be preferable to that. If you write to me

I shall be happy, but if you do not

I shall be miserable and gloomy, your letters

are a source of pleasure and a failure to them

always make me feel like committing suicide.

*Now skip 2nd, 4th and all even numbered lines and read the rest.*