I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
– Pablo Neruda, Sonnet 17
男怕夜奔，女怕思凡。在天愿为比翼鸟，在地愿为连理枝。不指望他十分富贵九品相，不指望他八斗才高七步诗，六炷香烟，五样蔬食，只求得四季衣裳三餐饭，两个人儿一样痴，一心一意，丰衣足食，不愁穿来不愁吃……
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