"Beloved,—This morning I saw the sun rise from behind the grey hills that rampart our secluded vale. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, as I watched, the sombre robes of the Night were irradiated and enrosed by the mysterious fires of the Dawn. And herein, my dear one, I seemed to grasp a deathless symbol of the awakening of Love between us, the first slow gilding of our grey lives by the roseate glamour of romance...."
And so on. Now read this, taken from one in my own collection treating of the same subject:—
"Dear Woqgles,—How dare you hint that I'm lazy? As a matter of fact I saw the sunrise only this morning, which reminds me of a story. I daresay you know it already. A small boy decided to keep a diary, and the first entry he made was: '1st January—Got up at 8.15.' His mater objected to this on the ground that got up was too slangy. 'Look at the sun,' she said. 'The sun doesn't get up; it rises.' The same evening, after the boy had gone to bed, she looked at the diary again. There was only one other entry: 'Set at 9.'
Not much of a yarn, is it, Woggles? But still it's good enough for you...."
Or consider this beautiful conclusion:
"... Dear, I am all thine. My soul calls to thee across the night; the beating of my heart cries through the darkness—Thine, thine, thine!
Good night, adored one, good night.
Amorosa."
And contrast it with the following:—
"... And now I must dry up or I shan't be in bed by midnight, and the old man will lose his hair and say I'm ruining my precious constitution. Ta ta. Be a good infant.