<h2>XXVIII</h2>
<p>My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!<br/>
And yet they seem alive and quivering<br/>
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string<br/>
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.<br/>
This said,—he wished to have me in his sight<br/>
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring<br/>
To come and touch my hand . . . a simple thing,<br/>
Yet I wept for it!—this, . . . the paper’s light . . .<br/>
Said, Dear I love thee; and I sank and quailed<br/>
As if God’s future thundered on my past.<br/>
This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled<br/>
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.<br/>
And this . . . O Love, thy words have ill availed<br/>
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!</p>
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