Oh, why will she not love me? I know I am lovable
except to a very hard heart, and hers is not: it is only like yours,
reserved in its expression. It is strange what pain her prejudice has
been able to drop into my cup of happiness; and into yours, dearest, I
fear, even more.
Oh, I love you, I love you! I am crying with it, having no words to
declare to you what I feel. My tears have wings in them: first
semi-detached, then detached. See, dearest, there is a rain-stain to
make this letter fruitful of meaning!
It is sheer convention--and we, creatures of habit--that tears don't
come kindly and easily to express where laughter leaves off and a
something better begins. Which is all very ungrammatical and entirely
me, as I am when I get off my hinges too suddenly.
Amen, amen! When we are both a hundred we shall remember all this very
peaceably; and the "sanguine flower" will not look back at us less
beautifully because in just one spot it was inscribed with woe. And if
we with all our aids cannot have patience, where in this midge-bitten
world is that virtue to find a standing?
I kiss you--how? as if it were for the first or the last time? No, but
for all time, Beloved! every time I see you or think of you sums up my
world. Love me a little, too, and I will be as contented as I am your
loving.
LETTER LVII.
Come to me! I will not understand a word you have written till you come.
Pages:
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153