O, what is love if not a ray more gold
Than like itself? A quality it keeps
Of trust and happiness. It has been told
That its best place is in a dream of sleep.
As sleep and life sets in at last, one knows
To whom they miss the most. Tis not a time
One rarely thinks who gave them gifts of rose
That shine more brightly than some coins inside
A pocket. One may love their mother and
Not be in love with her. A true mate-soul
Does not have common love with mothers. Tanned
By sun, that love is way out of control.


I wish that I could tell you I love you;


But you might think I am in love with you.