My letters ! All dead paper ...
Mute and white ! And yet they seem
Alive and quivering against my
Tremulous hands which loose the
String and let them drop down
On my knee to - night .
This said , ... he wished
To have me in his sight
Once , as a friend :
This fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand
... A simple thing , yet
I wept for it ! -- this ,
... The paper's light ...
Said , Dear , I love thee ;
And sank and quailed as if God's
Future thundered on my past .
This said , I am thine --
And so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart
That beat so fast .
And this ... O Love ,
Thy words have ill availed ,
If , what this said ,
I dared repeat at last !

" Sonnets From The Portuguese XXVIII "
--- Elizabeth Barrett Browning
( 1806 - 1861 )