I miss and love still.’ Dreadful! ‘Very kind, I pray you mark, was Lady Waldemar. She came to see me nine times, rather ten— So beautiful, she hurts me like the day Let suddenly on sick eyes. ‘Most kind of all, Your cousin!—ah, most like you! Ere you came She kissed me mouth to mouth: I felt her soul Dip through her serious lips in holy fire. God help me, but it made me arrogant; I almost told her that you would not lose By taking me to wife: though, ever since, I’ve pondered much a certain thing she asked ... ‘He loves you, Marian?’ ... in a sort of mild Derisive sadness ... as a mother asks Her babe, ‘You’ll touch that star, you think?’ ‘Farewell! I know I never touched it. This is worst: Babes grow, and lose the hope of things above; A silver threepence sets them leaping high— But no more stars! mark that. I’ve writ all night, And told you nothing. God, if I could die, And let this letter break off innocent Just here! But no—for your sake ... Here’s the last: I never could be happy as your wife, I never could be harmless as your friend, I never will look more into your face, Till God says, ‘Look!’ I charge you, seek me not, Nor vex yourself with lamentable thoughts That peradventure I have come to grief; Be sure I’m well, I’m merry, I’m at ease, But such a long way, long way, long way off, I think you’ll find me sooner in my grave, And that’s my choice, observe. For what remains, An over-generous friend will care for me, And keep me happy ... happier.... There’s a blot! This ink runs thick ... we light girls lightly weep ... And keep me happier ... was the thing to say, ... Than as your wife I could be!—O, my star, My saint, my soul! for surely you’re my soul, Through whom God touched me! I am not so lost I cannot thank you for the good you did, The tears you stopped, which fell down bitterly, Like these—the times you made me weep for joy At hoping I should learn to write your notes And save the tiring of your eyes, at night; And most for that sweet thrice you kissed my lips And said ‘Dear Marian.’ ’Twould be hard to read, This letter, for a reader half as learn’d, But you’ll be sure to master it, in spite Of ups and downs. My hand shakes, I am blind, I’m poor at writing, at the best,—and yet I tried to make my _g_s the way you showed. Farewell—Christ love you.—Say ‘poor Marian’ now.’