You are very ill, they tell me. Beloved, it is such kindness in
them to have regard for the wish they disapprove and to let me know.
Knowledge is the one thing needful whose lack has deprived me of my
happiness: the express image of sorrow is not so terrible as the
foreboding doubt of it. Not because you are ill, but because I know
something definitely about you, I am happier to-day: a little nearer to
a semblance of service to you in my helplessness. How much I wish you
well, even though that might again carry you out of my knowledge! And,
though death might bring you nearer than life now makes possible, I pray
to you, dearest, not to die. It is not right that you should die yet,
with a mistake in your heart which a little more life might clear away.
Praying for your dear eyes to remain open, I realize suddenly how much
hope still remains in me, where I thought none was left. Even your
illness I take as a good omen; and the thought of you weak as a child
and somewhat like one in your present state with no brain for deep
thinking, comes to my heart to be cherished endlessly: there you lie,
Beloved, brought home to my imagination as never since the day we
parted. And the thought comes to the rescue of my helpless longing--that
it is as little children that men get brought into the kingdom of
Heaven. Let that be the medicine and outcome of your sickness, my own
Beloved! I hold my breath with hope that I shall have word of you when
your hand has strength again to write. For I know that in sleepless
nights and in pain you will be unable not to think of me. If you made
resolutions against that when you were well, they will go now that you
are laid weak; and so some power will come back to me, and my heart will
never be asleep for thinking that yours lies awake wanting it:--nor ever
be at rest for devising ways by which to be at the service of your
conscious longing.
Ah, my own one Beloved, whom I have loved so openly and so secretly, if
you were as I think some other men are, I could believe that I had given
you so much of my love that you had tired of me because I had made no
favor of it but had let you see that I was your faithful subject and
servant till death: so that after twenty years you, chancing upon an
empty day in your life, might come back and find me still yours;--as
to-morrow, if you came, you would.
My pride died when I saw love looking out of your eyes at me; and it has
not come back to me now that I see you no more. I have no wish that it
should. In all ways possible I would wish to be as I was when you loved
me; and seek to change nothing except as you bid me.