Well, I would
rather, Beloved, suffer through loving too much, than through loving too
little. It is a good fault as faults go. And it is _my_ fault, Beloved:
so some day you may have to be tender to it.
LETTER LXXVI.
Dearest: I feel constantly that we are together still: I cannot explain.
When I am most miserable, even so that I feel a longing to fly out of
reach of the dear household voices which say shy things to keep me
cheerful,--I feel that I have you in here waiting for me. Heart's heart,
in my darkest, it is you who speak to me!
As I write I have my cheek pressed against yours. None of it is true:
not a word, not a day that has separated us! I am yours: it is only the
poor five senses part of us that spells absence. Some day, some day you
will answer this letter which has to stay locked in my desk. Some day,
I mean, an answer will reach me:--without your reading this, your answer
will come. Is not your heart at this moment answering me?
Dearest, I trust you: I could not have dreamed you to myself, therefore
you must be true, quite independently of me. You as I saw you once with
open eyes remain so forever. You cannot make yourself, Beloved, not to be
what you are: you have called my soul to life if for no other reason than
to bear witness of you, come what may. No length of silence can make a
truth once sounded ever cease to be: borne away out of our hearing it
makes its way to the stars: dispersed or removed it cannot be lost.
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