1845-1846
_R.B. to E.B.B._
New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.
[Post-mark, January 10, 1845.]
I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,--and this is
no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,--whatever else,
no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius, and there a
graceful and natural end of the thing. Since the day last week when I
first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been
turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you
of their effect upon me, for in the first flush of delight I thought I
would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when
I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration--perhaps even,
as a loyal fellow-craftsman should, try and find fault and do you some
little good to be proud of hereafter!--but nothing comes of it all--so
into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living
poetry of yours, not a flower of which but took root and grew--Oh, how
different that is from lying to be dried and pressed flat, and prized
highly, and put in a book with a proper account at top and bottom,
and shut up and put away ... and the book called a 'Flora,' besides!
After all, I need not give up the thought of doing that, too, in time;
because even now, talking with whoever is worthy, I can give a reason
for my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music,
the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave
thought; but in this addressing myself to you--your own self, and for
the first time, my feeling rises altogether. I do, as I say, love
these books with all my heart--and I love you too. Do you know I was
once not very far from seeing--really seeing you? Mr. Kenyon said to
me one morning 'Would you like to see Miss Barrett?' then he went to
announce me,--then he returned ... you were too unwell, and now it is
years ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if
I had been close, so close, to some world's-wonder in chapel or crypt,
only a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some
slight, so it now seems, slight and just sufficient bar to admission,
and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles,
and the sight was never to be?
Well, these Poems were to be, and this true thankful joy and pride
with which I feel myself,
Yours ever faithfully,