If you love someone, you ought to think about writing them a poem every day, or finding one to read to them. People loved to be loved in this way, I think.

“Lovers, forget your love,

And list to the love of these,

She a window flower,

And he a winter breeze.

When the frosty window veil

Was melted down at noon,

And the caged yellow bird

Hung over her in tune,

He marked her through the pane,

He could not help but mark,

And only passed her by,

To come again at dark.

He was a winter wind,

concerned with ice and snow,

Dead weeds and unmated birds,

And little of love could know.

But the flower leaned aside

And thought of naught to say,

And morning found the breeze

A hundred miles away.”

– Robert Frost,  The Window Flower