My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,--he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring To 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 quailed As if God's future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine--and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this...O Love, thy words have ill availed If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
