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My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!And yet they seem alive and quiveringAgainst my tremulous hands which loose the stringAnd let them drop down on my knee to-night.This said, — he wished to have me in his sightOnce, as a friend: this fixed a day in springTo come and touch my hand … a simple thing,Yet I wept for it! — this, … the paper’s light …Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailedAs if God’s future thundered on my past.This said, I am thine — and so its ink has paledWith lying at my heart that beat too fast.And this … O Love, thy words have ill availedIf, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
