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I call to you, I touch your lips,

I am your own little bird.

But I protect myself, I surround myself with books, their silence does not demand anything, they exist, they are alive, they are for anyone to open, unlike us human beings.

She’s so pretty when she’s reading and sleeping and laughing – she’s pretty all the time.

Whomever I love, I love better in winter than in summer.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art! -

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing оn the new soft fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -

No -yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,

Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever -or else swoon to death.

I would like to be with you without your knowing it.

You don’t know how much I love you, I can’t show it to you in any way, and I have wished for so long that you could know.