The ghosts of love and the ghosts
of hatred must be quite different: these bring fear, and those none.
Come to me, dearest, in the blackest night, and I will not be afraid.
How strange that when one has suffered most, it is the poets (those who
are supposed to _sing_) who best express things for us. Yet singing is the
thing I feel least like. If ever a heart once woke up to find itself full
of tune, it was mine; now you have drawn all the song out of it, emptied
it dry: and I go to the poets to read epitaphs. I think it is their
cruelty that appeals to me:--they can sing of grief! O hard hearts!
Sitting here thinking of you, my ears have suddenly become wide open to
the night-sounds outside. A night-jar is making its beautiful burr in
the stillness, and there are things going away and away, telling me the
whereabouts of life like points on a map made for the ear. You, too, are
_somewhere_ outside, making no sound: and listening for you I heard
these. It seemed as if my brain had all at once opened and caught a new
sense. Are you there? This is one of those things which drop to us with
no present meaning: yet I know I am not to forget it as long as I live.
Good-night! At your head, at your feet, is there any room for me to-night,
Beloved?
LETTER LXVIII.
Dearest: The thought keeps troubling me how to give myself to you most, if
you should ever come back for me when I am no longer here.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173