_E.B.B. to R.B._
I write in haste, not to lose time about the proof. You will see on
the papers here my doubtfulnesses such as they are--but silence
swallows up the admirations ... and there is no time. 'Theocrite'
overtakes that wish of mine which ran on so fast--and the 'Duchess'
grows and grows the more I look--and 'Saul' is noble and must have his
full royalty some day. Would it not be well, by the way, to print it
in the meanwhile as a fragment confessed ... sowing asterisks at the
end. Because as a poem of yours it stands there and wants unity, and
people can't be expected to understand the difference between
incompleteness and defect, unless you make a sign. For the new
poems--they are full of beauty. You throw largesses out on all sides
without counting the coins: how beautiful that 'Night and Morning' ...
and the 'Earth's Immortalities' ... and the 'Song' too. And for your
'Glove,' all women should be grateful,--and Ronsard, honoured, in
this fresh shower of music on his old grave ... though the chivalry of
the interpretation, as well as much beside, is so plainly yours, ...
could only be yours perhaps. And even _you_ are forced to let in a
third person ... close to the doorway ... before you can do any good.
What a noble lion you give us too, with the 'flash on his forehead,'
and 'leagues in the desert already' as we look on him! And then, with
what a 'curious felicity' you turn the subject 'glove' to another use
and strike De Lorge's blow back on him with it, in the last paragraph
of your story! And the versification! And the lady's speech--(to
return!) so calm, and proud--yet a little bitter!
Am I not to thank you for all the pleasure and pride in these poems?
while you stand by and try to talk them down, perhaps.
Tell me how your mother is--tell me how you are ... you who never were
to be told twice about walking. Gone the way of all promises, is that
promise?
Ever yours,