call wordnetdesire. Ours is
heavenly wordnetdesire, ardent, but yet spiritual; intense, but without wordnetdesire;
a burning wordnetdesire like that of the cherubim; all-consuming, all-engrossing,
and enduring for evermore.

Have I ever told her my ? Yes; but not in words. I have told
her so in music, in every tone, in every strain. She knows that I am
hers. She is my divinity, my muse, my better genius--the nobler half of
my .

I have laid all my  at her feet, as one prostrates himself before
a divinity. She has accepted that  and has been pleased.

We are blended. We are one, but not after an earthly fashion, for never
yet have I even touched her hand in wordnetdesire. It is our , our real
selves--not our merely visible selves--that wordnetdesire; yet that wordnetdesire is so
intense that I would die for evermore if my death could make her life
more sweet.

She has heard all this from my Cremona.

Here, as we stood under the moon, I thought her a  with a mortal
lover. I recognized the full meaning of the sublime legend of Numa and
Egeria. The mortal aspires in purity of , and the immortal comes
down and assists and responds to