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We prefer deep reflections on Philosophy, Shakespearean Sonnets, and tender musings along the lines of:

XXIX

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,-- and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate,;
  For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
 	--William Shakespeare

CXXIV

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd,
As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic, 
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.
  To this I witness call the fools of time,
  Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.
 	--William Shakespeare

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My gaze on Beatrice, hers on Heaven, In less time than an arrow strikes the mark, Flies through the air, loosed from its catch, I found myself in some place where a wondrous thing. Absorbed all of my mind, and then my lady, From whom I could not keep my thirst to know, turned toward me as joyful as her beauty: Direct your mind and gratitude, she said, To God, who raised us up to His first star. -Dante, The Divine Comedy: Paradise

All The Best,

William Einstein Shakespeare :)

XXI

So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare'
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
  Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
  I will not praise that purpose not to sell.
 	--William Shakespeare