My letters ! all dead paper, mute and white ! br And yet they seem alive and quivering br Against my tremulous hands which loose the string br And let them drop down on my knee to-night. br This said,--he wished to have me in his sight br Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring br To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing, br Yet I wept for it !--this, . . . the paper's light . . . br Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed br As if God's future thundered on my past. br This said, I am thine--and so its ink has paled br With Iying at my heart that beat too fast. br And this . . .