Let Us Open Our Leaves

His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless, Dead, Unsceptred; And His Realmless Eyes Were Closed.

So Let Me Be Thy Choir, And Make A Moan Upon The Midnight Hours.

Ask Yourself My Love Whether You Are Not Very Cruel To Have So Entrammelled Me, So Destroyed My Freedom. Will You Confess This In The Letter You Must Write Immediately, And Do All You Can To Console Me In It — Make It Rich As A Draught Of Poppies To Intoxicate Me —write The Softest Words And Kiss Them That I May At Least Touch My Lips Where Yours Have Been. For Myself I Know Not How To Express My Devotion To So Fair A Form: I Want A Brighter Word Than Bright, A Fairer Word Than Fair.

Every Fresh Experience Points Out Some Form Of Error Which We Shall Afterwards Carefully Avoid.

How Beautiful, If Sorrow Had Not Made Sorrow More Beautiful Than Beauty's Self.