by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

    My letters！ all dead paper， mute and white！

    And yet they seem alive and quivering

    Against my tremulous hands which loose the string

    And let them drop down on my knee tonight.

    This said-he wished to have me in his sight

    Once， as a friend： this fixed a day in spring

    To come and touch my hand. . . a simple thing，

    Yes I wept for it-this . . . the paper's light. . .

    Said， Dear， I love thee； and I sank and quailed

    As if God's future thundered on my past.

    This said， I am thine-and so its ink has paled

    With lying at my heart that beat too fast.

    And this . . . 0 Love， thy words have ill availed

    If， what this said， I dared repeat at last