Applying them to thee, my love, and thinking whether I shall ever see thee again. Perhaps not—for some years at least—till both thou and I are old —and then when all else has forsaken thee, I will creep to thee, and die in thine arms.
You once made me believe that I was not hated by her I loved, and for that sensation—so delicious was it, though but mockery and a dream—I owe you more than I can ever pay. I thought to have dried up my tears forever the day I left you, but as I write this they stream again. If they did not, I think my heart would burst.
I walk out here on an afternoon and hear the notes of the thrush that comes up from a sheltered valley below, welcome