The feeling...

...Which fills me, terrible and jealous, truly
  Love,--which is ever sad amid its transports !
  Love,--and yet, strangely, not a selfish passion ! 

  I for your joy would gladly lay mine own down,
  --E'en though you never were to know it,--never !
  --If but at times I might--far off and lonely,--
  Hear some gay echo of the joy I bought you ! 

  Each glance of thine awakes in me a virtue,--
  A novel, unknown valor. Dost begin, sweet,
  To understand? So late, dost understand me?
  Feel'st thou my soul, here, through the darkness mounting?
  Too fair the night ! Too fair, too fair the moment!
  That I should speak thus, and that you should hearken !
  Too fair! In moments when my hopes rose proudest,
  I never hoped such guerdon. Naught is left me 

  But to die now! Then let death come !
  "Tis I, "tis I myself, who conquered thee !
  One thing, but one, I dare to ask--

--a kiss !

  A kiss! The word is sweet.
  I see not why your lip should shrink from it;
  If the word burns it,--what would the kiss do? 

  A kiss, when all is said,--what is it?
  An oath that's ratified,--a sealed promise,
  A heart's avowal claiming confirmation,--
  A rose-dot on the 'i' of 'adoration,'--
  A secret that to mouth, not ear, is whispered,--
  Brush of a bee's wing, that makes time eternal,--
  Communion perfumed like the spring's wild flowers,--
  The heart's relieving in the heart's outbreathing,
  When to the lips the soul's flood rises, brimming!

                                                                Edmond de Rostand,
                                                                 Cyrano de Bergerac