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.
Writing about the forthcoming funeral ceremonies for Nelson Mandela, I wrote last Saturday: As the sparks fly upward into the star-speckled sky the praise...
6 hours ago