Go to, dearest! There is one thing in which I can beat you, and that is in the bandying of words and all verbal conjurings: take this as the last proof of it and rest quiet. I know you love me a great great deal more than I have wit or power to love you: and that is just the little reason why your love mounts till, as I tell you, it crowns me (head or heels): while mine, insufficient and groveling, lies at your feet, and will till they become amputated. And I can give you, but won't, sixty other reasons why things are as I say, and are to be left as I say. And oh, my world, my world, it is with you I go round sunwards, and you make my evenings and mornings, and will, till Time shuts his wings over us! And now it is doleful business I have to write to you.... I have dropped to sleep over all this writing of things, and my cheek down on the page has made the paper unwilling to take the ink again:--what a pretty compliment to me: and, if you prefer it, what an easy way of writing to you! I can send you such any day and be as idle as I like. And you will decide about all the above exactly as you and I think best (or should it be "better" again, being only between us two?). When you get this, blow your beloved self a kiss in the glass for me,--a great big shattering blow that shall astonish Mercury behind his window-pane. Good-night, my best--or "better," for that is what I most want you to be. LETTER XXV. My Own Beloved: And I never thanked you yesterday for your dear words about the resurrection pie; that comes of quarreling! Well, you must prove them and come quickly that I may see this restoration of health and spirits that you assure me of. You avoid saying that they sent you to sleep; but I suppose that is what you mean. Fate meant me only to light upon gay things this morning: listen to this and guess where it comes from: "When March with variant winds was past, And April had with her silver showers Ta'en leif at life with an orient blast; And lusty May, that mother of flowers, Had made the birds to begin their hours, Among the odours ruddy and white, Whose harmony was the ear's delight: "In bed at morrow I sleeping lay; Methought Aurora, with crystal een, In at the window looked by day, And gave me her visage pale and green; And on her hand sang a lark from the splene, 'Awake ye lovers from slumbering! See how the lusty morrow doth spring!'"