It don't
give much pleasure at any time. What the magic of it is we can't tell,
but so it is for all that. It seems only a custom like bowing and
nothing else, still there is more in it than meets the eye. But a kiss
fairly electrifies you, it warms your blood and sets your heart a
beatin' like a brass drum, and makes your eyes twinkle like stars in a
frosty night. It tante a thing ever to be forgot. No language can
express it, no letters will give the sound. Then what in natur is
equal to the flavour of it? What an aroma it has! How spiritual it is!
It ain't gross, for you can't feed on it; it don't cloy, for the
palate ain't required to test its taste. It is neither visible, nor
tangible, nor portable, nor transferable. It is not a substance, nor a
liquid, nor a vapour. It has neither colour nor form. Imagination
can't conceive it. It can't be imitated or forged. It is confined to
no clime or country, but is ubiquitous. It is disembodied when
completed, but is instantly reproduced, and so is immortal. It is as
old as the creation, and yet is as young and fresh as ever. It
pre?xisted, still exists, and always will exist. It pervades all
natur. The breeze as it passes kisses the rose, and the pendant vine
stoops down and hides with its tendrils its blushes, as it kisses the
limpid stream that waits in an eddy to meet it, and raises its tiny
waves, like anxious lips to receive it.
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