He thought her beautiful, believed her impeccably wise; dreamed of her, wrote poems to her, which, ignoring the subject, she corrected in red ink.

For the lily-of-the-valley month of May I would give legions of stars, splendor and glory

I always think of you peculiarly in May,

“I was carving my name into your side and you were calling me soft, calling me gentle. I do not think you were paying attention.”

A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud.

“Today my winged horse is coming and I am carrying you off to the moon and on the moon we will eat rose petals.”