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January 25, 2010
My dearest lady, I am now at a very pleasant cottage window looking onto a beautiful hilly country, with a view of the sea. The morning is very fine. I do not know how elastic my spirit might be, what pleasure I might have in living here if the remembrance of you did not weigh so upon me. Ask yourself, my love, whether you are not very cruel to have so entrammelled me, so destroyed my freedom. For myself, I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form. I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I almost wish we were butterflies and lived but three summer days. Three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain. Will you confess this in a letter you must write immediately and do all you can to console me in it, make it as rich as a draft of poppies to intoxicate me, write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been.
posted by Δ # 11:32 AM 
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