* John Keats To Fanny Brawne
 
Sweetest Fanny,
You fear, sometimes, I do not love you so much as you wish? 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. 
I have vex'd you too much. But for Love! Can I help it? 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.
You uttered a half complaint once that I only lov'd your Beauty. Have I nothing else 
then to love in you but that? Do not I see a heart naturally furnish'd with 
wings imprison itself with me? No ill prospect has been able to turn your thoughts 
a moment from me. This perhaps should be as much a subject of sorrow as joy - 
but I will not talk of that. 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. 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. 
The anxiety shown about our Love in your last note is an immense pleasure to me; 
however you must not suffer such speculations to molest you any more: 
not will I any more believe you can have the least pique against me. Brown is gone out
-- but here is Mrs Wylie -- when she is gone I shall be awake for you. -- 
Remembrances to your Mother.

Your affectionate, J. Keats
		

* By Gustave Flaubert
 
Gustave Flaubert, famous French writer, to his wife Louise Colet.

I will cover you with love when next I see you, with caresses, with ecstasy. 
I want to gorge you with all the joys of the flesh, so that you faint and die. 
I want you to be amazed by me, and to confess to yourself that you had never 
even dreamed of such transports... 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.
		

* By Mark Twain
 
Mark Twain, American writer, to Olivia Langdon, his future wife.
May 12, 1869

Out of the depths of my happy heart wells a great tide of love and prayer for 
this priceless treasure that is confided to my life-long keeping.
You cannot see its intangible waves as they flow towards you, darling, 
but in these lines you will hear, as it were, the distant beating of the surf.
So we know love is truly an eternal feeling with these romantic love letters. 
Now write your own love letter and shower the spring of love on your sweetheart. 
Read through these great love letter tips and express your innermost feelings to 
your beloved this Valentine's Day.
		

* to Louise Colet
 
Have you really not noticed, then, that here of all places, in this private,
personal solitude that surrounds me, I have turned to you? All the memories of
my youth speak to me as I walk, just as the sea shells crunch under my feet on the
beach. The crash of every wave awakens far-distant reverberations within me.

I hear the rumble of bygone days, and in my mind the whole endless series of old
passions surges forward like the billows. I remember my spasms, my sorrows, gusts
of desire that whistled like wind in the rigging, and vast vague longings that
swirled in the dark like a flock of wild gulls in a storm cloud.

On whom should I lean, if not on you? My weary mind turns for refreshment to
the thought of you as a dusty traveler might sink onto a soft and grassy bank.

- Gustave Flaubert, French writer
		

* Annabella Milbanke
 
My Heart

We are thus far separated - but after all one mile is as bad as a thousand -
which is a great consolation to one who must travel six hundred before he meets
you again. If it will give you any satisfaction - I am as comfortless as a pilgrim
with peas in his shoes - and as cold as Charity - Chastity or any other Virtue.

- Lord Byron