Nathaniel Hawthorne to Sophia Peabody who would become his wife in 1842
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.
2 hours ago