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