She wrote from Helston; begged I’d come And see her in her husband’s home. I went, and bound by double vow, Not only wife, but mother now, I found her, lovely as of old, O, rather, lovelier manifold. Her wifely sweet reserve unbroke, Still frankly, tenderly, she spoke; Asked me about myself, would hear What I proposed to do this year; At college why was I detained, Was it the fellowship I’d gained? I told her that I was not tied Henceforward further to reside, Yet very likely might stay on, And lapse into a college don; My fellowship itself would give A competence on which to live, And if I waited, who could tell, I might be tutor too, as well. Oh, but, she said, I must not stay, College and school were only play; I might be sick, perhaps, of praise, But must not therefore waste my days! Fellows grow indolent, and then They may not do as other men, And for your happiness in life, Sometime you’ll wish to have a wife. Languidly by her chair I sat, But my eyes rather flashed at that. I said, ‘Emilia, people change, But yet, I own, I find it strange To hear this common talk from you: You speak, and some believe it true, Just as if any wife would do; Whoe’er one takes, ’tis much the same, And love—and so forth, but a name.’ She coloured. ‘What can I have said Or what could put it in your head? Indeed, I had not in my mind The faintest notion of the kind.’ I told her that I did not know— Her tone appeared to mean it so. ‘Emilia, when I’ve heard,’ I said, ‘How people match themselves and wed, I’ve sometimes wished that both were dead,’ She turned a little pale. I woke Some thought; what thought I but soft she spoke; ‘I’m sure that what you meant was good, But, really, you misunderstood. From point to point so quick you fly, And are so vehement,—and I, As you remember, long ago, Am stupid, certainly am slow. And yet some things I seem to know; I know it will be just a crime, If you should waste your powers and time. There is so much, I think, that you, And no one equally, can do.’ ‘It does not matter much,’ said I, ‘The things I thought of are gone by; I’m quite content to wait to die.’