I thank you, kind and best beloved friend, 
With the same thanks one murmurs to a sister, 
When, for some gentle favor, he hath kissed her, 
Less for the gifts than for the love you send, 
Less for the flowers, than what the flowers convey; 
If I, indeed, divine their meaning truly, 
And not unto myself ascribe, unduly, 
Things which you neither meant nor wished to say, 
Oh! tell me, is the hope then all misplaced? 
And am I flattered by my own affection? 
But in your beauteous gift, methought I traced 
Something above a short-lived predilection, 
And which, for that I know no dearer name, 
I designate as love, without love’s flame.