I put my lips to the panel of the door, as a kiss for my dear, and came quietly down again, thinking that one of these days I would confess to the visit.
Dickens.
I picture you to myself as my hand glides over the paper. I think I see you, as you look on these words, and envy them the gaze of those dark eyes. Press your lips to the paper. Do you feel the kiss that I leave there?
Bulwer-Lytton.
He, from his very birth, cut off from the social ties of blood,—no mother’s kiss to reward the toils, or gladden the sports, of childhood,—no father’s cheering word up the steep hill of man.
Bulwer-Lytton.
Many a man and woman has been incensed and worshiped, and has shown no more feeling than is to be expected from idols. There is yonder statue in St. Peter’s, of which the toe is worn away with kisses, and which sits, and will sit eternally, prim and cold.