Oh Monday mornings, how do I love thee, let me count the ways
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight for the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use I my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints.
I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life;
and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
slightly modified from original poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning