If She Could Only Write
“Please write me a letter, Holy Sir.”
—“To Robin, I suppose?”
“You know because one evening dark
To startle us you chose,—
But on my soul...”—“No more, a pen
And paper, daughter, give:
‘Belovèd Rob,’”—“‘Belo’d’?”—“Then
You don’t love him, I perceive.”
“Oh yes! and now you’ve put it,
It must stay”—“‘If you but knew
How very sad and lonely, dear,
I am away from you!’”
“Why, Sir, you know my very thoughts!”...
“To an old man like me
A maid’s breast is of crystal clear
Through which the heart we see.
‘Without you all is bitterness,
But with you Paradise.’”
“Pray make those letters quite clear, Sir,
And underline them thrice.”
“‘And if you no longer love me,
Suffer so much shall I.
That’...”—“‘Suffer’? ’tis not the word, Sir;
Put ‘I shall surely die.’”
“’Twere sinning against Heaven, my child.”
“‘Die,’ sir, in black and white!”
“Not so.”—“Alas, your heart’s of ice,
Oh! if I could but write!...
Dear Father, Holy Father!
In vain you write for me,
If incarnate in the letters
Is not all that I may be.
For Christ’s sake, tell him that my soul
Within me will not stay,
That if anguish does not kill me
’Tis because I weep all day.
That my lips, the roses of his breath,
Know only how to close;
And that all smiles and laughter
Long ago within me froze.
That the eyes he thought so lovely
Are heavy with distress,
Since there’s nobody to look at them
They shut for wretchedness.
That for the echo of his voice
My ears are all athirst;
That of all the torments suffer’d
His absence is the worst...
And that it is his fault my heart’s
In such sweet-bitter plight!...
Good heavens, how many things I’d put
If I could only write!...”
Campoamor.