A letter to my wife

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I know and feel that if I am to write anything fine and noble in the future I shall do so only by listening at the doors of your heart. I would like to go through life side by side with you, telling you more and more until we grew to be one being together until the hour should come for us to die. My dear Girl I love you ever and ever and without reserve. The more I have known you the more have I lov'd. In every way - even my jealousies have been agonies of Love, in the hottest fit I ever had I would have died for you.

You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass'd my window home yesterday, I was fill'd with as much admiration as if I had then seen you for the first time. Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to you: how much more deeply then must I feel for you knowing you love me.

My Mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.

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I never felt my Mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment - upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses. I feel I exist here, and I feel I shall exist hereafter,--to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you.

Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and ocean divide us,--but they never will, unless you wish it. And we love.

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And we've got the most amazing secrets and understandings. Noel, whom I love, who is so beautiful and wonderful. I think of you eating omlette on the ground. I think of you once against a sky line: and on the hill that Sunday morning. And that night was wonderfullest of all.


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The light and the shadow and quietness and the rain and the wood. And you. You are so beautiful and wonderful that I daren't write to you And kinder than God.

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Your arms and lips and hair and shoulders and voice - you. You are a Poem.

Of what sort, then? 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.

Nathaniel Hawthorne 2- In addition to being a brilliant military mind and feared ruler, Napolean Bonaparte - was a prolific writer of letters. He reportedly wrote as many as 75, letters in his lifetime, many of them to his beautiful wife, Josephine, both before and during their marriage. This letter, written just prior to their wedding, shows surprising tenderness and emotion from the future emperor.

Paris, December I wake filled with thoughts of you. Your portrait and the intoxicating evening which we spent yesterday have left my senses in turmoil. Sweet, incomparable Josephine, what a strange effect you have on my heart! Are you angry? Do I see you looking sad? Are you worried?

A Love Letter to My Beloved

My soul aches with sorrow, and there can be no rest for you lover; but is there still more in store for me when, yielding to the profound feelings which overwhelm me, I draw from your lips, from your heart a love which consumes me with fire? You are leaving at noon; I shall see you in three hours. Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fi by Napolean Bonaparte. Upon his death, a love letter was found among his possessions.

Compositions such as the Moonlight Sonata as well as Beethoven's many symphonies express eloquently the tragedy of a relationship never publicly realized. July 6, My angel, my all, my very self -- only a few words today and at that with your pencil -- not till tomorrow will my lodgings be definitely determined upon -- what a useless waste of time. Why this deep sorrow where necessity speaks -- can our love endure except through sacrifices -- except through not demanding everything -- can you change it that you are not wholly mine, I not wholly thine? Oh, God! If we were wholly united you would feel the pain of it as little as I!

Now a quick change to things internal from things external. We shall surely see each other; moreover, I cannot communicate to you the observations I have made during the last few days touching my own life -- if our hearts were always close together I would make none of the kind. My heart is full of many things to say to you - Ah! Your faithful, Ludwig. It seems to me that what I feel is not of earth. I cannot yet comprehend this cloudless heaven. My whole soul is yours. My Adele, why is there no word for this but joy? Is it because there is no power in human speech to express such happiness? Oh, now you are mine!

At last you are mine! Soon -- in a few months, perhaps, my angel will sleep in my arms, will awaken in my arms, will live there. All your thoughts at all moments, all your looks will be for me; all my thoughts, all my moments, all my looks, will be for you! Adieu, my angel, my beloved Adele! Still I am far from you, but I can dream of you. Soon perhaps you will be at my side. Adieu; pardon the delirium of your husband who embraces you, and who adores you, both for this life and another. Henceforward I am yours for everything. The lover who is certain of an equal return of affection, is surely the happiest of men; but he who is a prey to the horrors of anxiety and dreaded disappointment, is a being whose situation is by no means enviable.

Of this, my present experience gives me much proof. To me, amusement seems impertinent, and business intrusion, while you alone engross every faculty of my mind. May I request you to drop me a line, to inform me when I may wait upon you? For pity's sake, do; and let me have it soon. Your most attached Is there anything on earth or heaven would have made me so happy as to have made you mine long ago?

Lord Byron 8- I will cover you with love when next I see you, with caresses, with ecstasy. When you are old, I want you to recall those few hours, I want your dry bones to quiver with joy when you think of them. He became an army officer in , and after rapid promotion, took command of the army of the interior in After a coup in , Napoleon became first consul, and in emperor. Between and he consolidated his empire in Europe. In , following defeat in Russia, he abdicated and was banished to Elba. In he resumed power, but was crushed at the Battle of Waterloo and exiled to St.

Helena, where he died in Spring To Josephine, I love you no longer; on the contrary, I detest you. You never write to me at all, you do not love your husband; you know the pleasure that your letters give him yet you cannot even manage to write him half a dozen lines, dashed off in a moment! What then do you do all day, Madame?

What business is so vital that it robs you of the time to write to your faithful lover? What attachment can be stifling and pushing aside the love, the tender and constant love which you promised him?

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Who can this wonderful new lover be who takes up your every moment, rules your days and prevents you from devoting your attention to your husband? Beware, Josephine; one fine night the doors will be broken down and there I shall be. In truth, I am worried, my love, to have no news from you; write me a four page letter instantly made up from those delightful words which fill my heart with emotion and joy.


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I hope to hold you in my arms before long, when I shall lavish upon you a million kisses, burning as the equatorial sun. This last week has seemed an eternity tome; Oh, I would give my soul for another of those days we had together not long ago My first and only love This union is love, true love, This is the love which you inspire in me Your soul is made to love with the purity and passion of angels; but perhaps it can only love another angel, in which case I must tremble with apprehension.

You are beautiful. You are wonderful.


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