Your coldness, your reproaches, you who call My longing and my spiritual despair A mere neurosis, or hysterical Outcropping to be conquered. It was wrong To take me in your arms, and then when all Was not yours then to tell me to be strong, And urge your marriage vows now I have thought The problem of my love through. I belong To you Monsieur; whatever grief is wrought Of body or of soul to satisfy The flame is better, and is far less fraught With mad regret than it can be to lie In restless torture. O my friend withdraw Your friendship from me never lest I die! Yes, I could live and work if I foresaw Your friendship mine and letters by your hand Arriving in this lonely place to thaw The ice around my heart’s flame. Understand From those I love but little love I need: Crumbs from your feast you scarce can countermand, And crumbs are all I ask, and just the meed Of friendly interest. I abase my pride. The strong can suffer silently and bleed As long as strength lasts, keep the blood inside, Until one weakens when it spurts and drips. And Pride turns Nature, careless now to hide The inner bleeding bubbling at the lips. I write you this without regret or shame. My strength has left me in the blue eclipse Of agony. Monsieur, I take the blame, If any come, of fanning dangerously The spark that brightened once and would be flame-- Is that not true? Or do you say to me: “You are no more my pupil, I retrench “The memory of things that cease to be, “And go my way with teaching young girls French, “As I taught you. Two years have passed since then. “What is this thought that time has failed to quench? “You who are laureled in the world of men, “A genius risen like a morning star, “Does not that glory fill you?” Yet again I answer you one’s genius burns afar In useless splendor if it warm no cheek, Make bright no eye, lead on no darkling spar-- Genius is love, is freedom, it must speak, Work out its fate from egocentric life; It is more swift than other feet to seek Its ruin with its hope, or take the knife More willingly to breast than those who sink In involuted growth. To be your wife I do not dream, I only wish to drink The cup with you and break the bread with you, To feel thereby our lives are one and think We are one creed and one communion, new In spirit, born anew, that I may have An altar for my genius, something true And near in flesh to triumph for, or brave The world or evil for. Genius is love. It cannot bear itself alone to save; It must another rescue, it must prove Its growing strength in ministry. Monsieur, Bruise not my soul by ignorance hereof, My reverend father thinks my thoughts are pure-- If he should read this! But if you dismiss This letter with a smile and say her cure