But, Dearest: When I think of you I never question whether what I think

would be true or false in the eyes of others. All that concerns you seems

to go on a different plane where evidence has no meaning or existence:

where nobody exists or means anything, but only we two alone, engaged in

bringing about for ourselves the still greater solitude of two into one.

Oh, Beloved, what a company that will be! Take me in your arms, fasten me

to your heart, breathe on me. Deny me either breath or the light of day: I

am yours equally, to live or die at your word. I shut my eyes to feel your

kisses falling on me like rain, or still more like sunshine,--yet most of

all like kisses, my own dearest and best beloved!

Oh, we two! how wonderful we seem! And to think that there have been

lovers like us since the world began: and the world not able to tell us

one little word of it:--not well, so as to be believed--or only along

with sadness where Fate has broken up the heavens which lay over some

pair of lovers. Oenone's cry, "Ah me, my mountain shepherd," tells us

of the joy when it has vanished, and most of all I get it in that song

of wife and husband which ends:-"Not a word for you,

Not a lock or kiss,

Good-by.

We, one, must part in two;

Verily death is this:

I must die."

It was a woman wrote that: and we get love there! Is it only when joy is

past that we can give it its full expression? Even now, Beloved, I break

down in trying to say how I love you. I cannot put all my joy into my

words, nor all my love into my lips, nor all my life into your arms,

whatever way I try. Something remains that I cannot express. Believe,

dearest, that the half has not yet been spoken, neither of my love for

you, nor of my trust in you,--nor of a wish that seems sad, but comes in a

very tumult of happiness--the wish to die so that some unknown good may

come to you out of me.

Not till you die, dearest, shall I die truly! I love you now too much for

your heart not to carry me to its grave, though I should die now, and you

live to be a hundred. I pray you may! I cannot choose a day for you to

die. I am too grateful to life which has given me to you to say--if I

were dying--"Come with me, dearest!" Though, how the words tempt me as I

write them!--Come with me, dearest: yes, come! Ah, but you kiss me more, I

think, when we say good-by than when meeting; so you will kiss me most of

all when I have to die:--a thing in death to look forward to! And, till

then,--life, life, till I am out of my depth in happiness and drown in

your arms!




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