Lord Byron

لای برگای کتابا دنباله خودت نگرد !

تو غبارا ، تو سرابا دنباله خودت نگرد !

گم نکن خودت رو تو دنیای تردید و دروغ !

زیر آواره نقابا دنباله خودت نگرد !

باورش کن منه تازه رو ! خوده خوده توئه !

اون غریبه که عذابه لحظه هات شده توئه !

صورتت برات نقابه ! خودتو نشون بده !

اون که تن می ده به هر نقابی که موده توئه !

گاهی وقتا صورتت ماله تو نیست

گاهی وقتا آینه هم دروغ میگه

گاهی حتی توآینه خودتو

اشتباه میگیری با یکی دیگه

اگه توی پیرهنت آتشفشون داری ، بیا !

اگه دست تو دسته این حادثه میذاری ، بیا !

خودتو زنده شده تو دله تو !رفیقکم !

Famous love letter by Lewis Carroll

Christ Church, Oxford, October 28, 1876

My Dearest Gertrude:

You will be sorry, and surprised, and puzzled, to hear what a queer illness I have had ever since you went. I sent for the doctor, and said, "Give me some medicine. for I'm tired." He said, "Nonsense and stuff! You don't want medicine: go to bed!"

I said, "No; it isn't the sort of tiredness that wants bed. I'm tired in the face." He looked a little grave, and said, "Oh, it's your nose that's tired: a person often talks too much when he thinks he knows a
great deal." I said, "No, it isn't the nose. Perhaps it's the hair." Then he looked rather grave, and said, "Now I understand: you've been playing too many hairs on the pianoforte."

"No, indeed I haven't!" I said, "and it isn't exactly the hair: it's more about the nose and chin." Then he looked a good deal graver, and said, "Have you been walking much on your chin lately?" I said, "No." "Well!" he said, "it puzzles me very much.

Do you think it's in the lips?" "Of course!" I said. "That's exactly what it is!"

Then he looked very grave indeed, and said, "I think you must have been giving too many kisses." "Well," I said, "I did give one kiss to a baby child, a little friend of mine."

"Think again," he said; "are you sure it was only one?" I thought again, and said, "Perhaps it was eleven times." Then the doctor said, "You must not give her any more till your lips are quite rested
again." "But what am I to do?" I said, "because you see, I owe her a hundred and eighty-two more." Then he looked so grave that tears ran down his cheeks, and he said, "You may send them to her in a box."

Then I remembered a little box that I once bought at Dover, and thought I would someday give it to some little girl or other. So I have packed them all in it very carefully. Tell me if they come safe or if any are lost on the way."

Lewis Carroll

Famous love letter by Ludwig van Beethoven

 Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827), one of history's most famous and mysterious composers died at the age of 57 with one great secret. Upon his death, a love letter was found among his possessions. It was written to an unknown woman who Beethoven simply called his *Immortal Beloved.*

The world may never put a face with this mysterious woman or know the circumstances of their affair and his letters are all that is left of a love as intensely passionate as the music for which Beethoven became famous. Compositions such as the Moonlight Sonata as well as Beethoven's many symphonies express eloquently the tragedy of a
relationship never publicly realized.

July 6, 1806

My angel, my all, my very self -- only a few words today and at that with your pencil -- not till tomorrow will my lodgings be definitely determined upon -- what a useless waste of time. Why this deep sorrow where necessity speaks -- can our love endure except through sacrifices -- except through not demanding everything -- can you change it that you are not wholly mine, I not wholly thine?

Oh, God! look out into the beauties of nature and comfort yourself with that which must be -- love demands everything and that very justly -- that it is with me so far as you are concerned, and you with
me. If we were wholly united you would feel the pain of it as little as I!

Now a quick change to things internal from things external. We shall surely see each other; moreover, I cannot communicate to you the observations I have made during the last few days touching my own life -- if our hearts were always close together I would make none of the kind. My heart is full of many things to say to you - Ah! -- there are moments when I feel that speech is nothing after all -- cheer up -- remain my true, only treasure, my all as I am yours; the gods must send us the rest that which shall be best for us.

Your faithful,
Ludwig 

Famous love letter by Napolean Bonaparte

 In addition to being a brilliant military mind and feared ruler, Napolean Bonaparte (1763 - 1821) was a prolific writer of letters. He reportedly wrote as many as 75,000 letters in his lifetime, many of them to his beautiful wife, Josephine, both before and during their marriage. This letter, written just prior to their 1796 wedding, shows surprising tenderness and emotion from the future emperor.


Paris, December 1795

I wake filled with thoughts of you. Your portrait and the intoxicating evening which we spent yesterday have left my senses in turmoil. Sweet, incomparable Josephine, what a strange effect you have on my heart! Are you angry? Do I see you looking sad? Are you worried?... My soul aches with sorrow, and there can be no rest for you lover; but is there still more in store for me when, yielding to the profound feelings which overwhelm me, I draw from your lips, from your heart a love which consumes me with fire? Ah! it was last night that I fully realized how false an image of you your portrait gives!

You are leaving at noon; I shall see you in three hours.

Until then, mio dolce amor, a thousand kisses; but give me none in return, for they set my blood on fire.

Famous love letter by Mark Twain

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.

Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens), American writer, to Olivia Langdon, his future wife.

Famous love letter by James Joyce

Irish-born writer James Joyce (1882 - 1941) lived in a variety of cities in Europe, but was always tied to Dublin, the city of his birth. It was the setting for many of his revolutionary and controversial works, and it was also where in 1904 he met Nora Barnacle, the woman who would eventually become his wife. This letter, written just months after Joyce first met Nora, shows the depth of his affection.

15 August, 1904

My dear Nora,

It has just struck me. I came in at half past eleven. Since then I have been sitting in an easy chair like a fool. I could do nothing. I hear nothing but your voice. I am like a fool hearing you call me 'Dear.' I offended two men today by leaving them coolly. I wanted to hear your voice, not theirs.

When I am with you I leave aside my contemptuous, suspicious nature. I wish I felt your head on my shoulder. I think I will go to bed.

I have been a half-hour writing this thing. Will you write something to me? I hope you will. How am I to sign myself? I won't sign anything at all, because I don't know what to sign myself.

من که رفتم زین چمن باغ و بهاران گو مباش
بوسه باران و رقص شاخساران گو مباش
چون گل لبخند من پژمرد ابری گو مبار
چون خزان شد عمر من صبح بهاران گو مباش
من که سر بردم به زیر بال خاموشی و مرگ
نغمه ی شور افکن بانگ هزاران گو مباش
 تیشه را فرهاد از حسرت چو بر سر می زند
 نقش شیرینی به طرف کوه ساران گو مباش
این درخت تشنه کام اینجا چو در بیداد سوخت
 کوه ساران را زلال جویباران گو مباش
 گر نتابد اختری بر آسمان من چه غم 
بر تو شمعی به شام سوگواران گو مباش

شفیعی كدكنی

سلامت را نمی خواهند پاسخ گفت
سرها در گریبان است
کسی سر بر نیارد کرد پاسخ گفتن و دیدار یاران را
نگه جز پیش پا را دید ، نتواند
که ره تاریک و لغزان است
وگر دست محبت سوی کسی یازی
 به کراه آورد دست از بغل بیرون
 که سرما سخت سوزان است
نفس ، کز گرمگاه سینه می اید برون ، ابری شود تاریک
 چو دیدار ایستد در پیش چشمانت
نفس کاین است ، پس دیگر چه داری چشم
ز چشم دوستان دور یا نزدیک ؟
 مسیحای جوانمرد من ! ای ترسای پیر پیرهن چرکین
هوا بس ناجوانمردانه سرد است ... ای
دمت گرم و سرت خوش باد
سلامم را تو پاسخ گوی ، در بگشای
منم من ، میهمان هر شبت ، لولی وش مغموم
منم من ، سنگ تیپاخورده ی رنجور
 منم ، دشنام پس آفرینش ، نغمه ی ناجور
نه از رومم ، نه از زنگم ، همان بیرنگ بیرنگم
بیا بگشای در ، بگشای ، دلتنگم
حریفا ! میزبانا ! میهمان سال و ماهت پشت در چون موج می لرزد
 تگرگی نیست ، مرگی نیست
صدایی گر شنیدی ، صحبت سرما و دندان است
من امشب آمدستم وام بگزارم
 حسابت را کنار جام بگذارم
چه می گویی که بیگه شد ، سحر شد ، بامداد آمد ؟
فریبت می دهد ، بر آسمان این سرخی بعد از سحرگه نیست
حریفا ! گوش سرما برده است این ، یادگار سیلی سرد زمستان است
و قندیل سپهر تنگ میدان ، مرده یا زنده
به تابوت ستبر ظلمت نه توی مرگ اندود ، پنهان است
حریفا ! رو چراغ باده را بفروز ، شب با روز یکسان است
سلامت را نمی خواهند پاسخ گفت
هوا دلگیر ، درها بسته ، سرها در گریبان ، دستها پنهان
نفسها ابر ، دلها خسته و غمگین
درختان اسکلتهای بلور آجین
زمین دلمرده ، سقف آسمان کوتاه
غبار آلوده مهر و ماه
زمستان است!

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