Letter LXXXV
Good-morning, Beloved; there is sun shining. I wonder if Arthur is with you yet?
If faith could still remove mountains, surely I should have seen you long ago. But if I were to see you now, I should fear that it meant you were dead.
That the same world should hold you and me living and unseen by each other is a great mystery. Will love ever explain it?
I wish I could bid the sun stand still over your meeting with Arthur so that I might know. We were so like each other once. Time has worn it off: but he is like what I was. Will you remember me well enough to recognize me in him, and to be a little pitiful to my weak longing for a word this one last time of all? Beloved, I press my lips to yours, and pray—speak!