But when I have you ... so it seems ... in my very heart; when you are entirely with me—­oh, the day—­then it will all go better, talk and writing too.

Love me, my own love; not as I love you—­not for—­but I cannot write that.  Nor do I ask anything, with all your gifts here, except for the luxury of asking.  Withdraw nothing, then, dearest, from your

R.B.

E.B.B. to R.B.

                              Wednesday.
                              [Post-mark, November 6, 1845.]

I had your note last night, and am waiting for the book to-day; a true living breathing book, let the writer say of it what he will.  Also when it comes it won’t certainly come ‘sine te.’  Which is my comfort.

And now—­not to make any more fuss about a matter of simple restitution—­may I have my letter back?...  I mean the letter which if you did not destroy ... did not punish for its sins long and long ago ... belongs to me—­which, if destroyed, I must lose for my sins, ... but, if undestroyed, which I may have back; may I not? is it not my own? must I not?—­that letter I was made to return and now turn to ask for again in further expiation.  Now do I ask humbly enough?  And send it at once, if undestroyed—­do not wait till Saturday.

I have considered about Mr. Kenyon and it seems best, in the event of a question or of a remark equivalent to a question, to confess to the visits ‘generally once a week’ ... because he may hear, one, two, three different ways, ... not to say the other reasons and Chaucer’s charge against ‘doubleness.’  I fear ...  I fear that he (not Chaucer) will wonder a little—­and he has looked at me with scanning spectacles already and talked of its being a mystery to him how you made your way here; and I, who though I can bespeak self-command, have no sort of presence of mind (not so much as one would use to play at Jack straws) did not help the case at all.  Well—­it cannot be helped.  Did I ever tell you what he said of you once—­’that you deserved to be a poet—­being one in your heart and life:’  he said that of you to me, and I thought it a noble encomium and deserving its application.

For the rest ... yes:  you know I do—­God knows I do.  Whatever I can feel is for you—­and perhaps it is not less, for not being simmered away in too much sunshine as with women accounted happier. I am happy besides now—­happy enough to die now.

May God bless you, dear—­dearest—­

Ever I am yours—­

The book does not come—­so I shall not wait.  Mr. Kenyon came instead, and comes again on Friday he says, and Saturday seems to be clear still.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Just arrived!—­(mind, the silent writing overflows the page, and laughs at the black words for Mr. Kenyon to read!)—­But your note arrived earlier—­more of that, when I write after this dreadful dispatching-business that falls on me—­friend A. and B. and C. must get their copy, and word of regard, all by next post!—­