pressions to which you refer--only could mean that
you were my crown and palm branch, now and for ever, and so, that it
was a very indifferent matter to me if the world took notice of that
fact or no. Yes, dearest, that _is_ the meaning of the prophecy, which
I was stupidly blind not to have read and taken comfort from long ago.
You ARE the veritable Siren--and you 'wait me,' and will sing 'song
for song.' And this is my first song, my true song--this love I bear
you--I look into my heart and then let it go forth under that
name--love. I am more than mistrustful of many other feelings in me:
they are not earnest enough; so far, not true enough--but this is all
the flower of my life which you call forth and which lies at your
feet.

Now let me say it--what you are to remember. That if I had the
slightest doubt, or fear, I would utter it to you on the
instant--secure in the incontested stability of the main _fact_, even
though the heights at the verge in the distance should tremble and
prove vapour--and there would be a deep consolation in your
forgiveness--indeed, yes; but I tell you, on solemn consideration, it
does seem to me that--once take away the broad and general words that
admit in their nature of any freight they can be charged with,--put
aside love, and devotion, and trust--and _then_ I seem to have said
_nothing_ of my feeling to you--nothing whatever.

I will not write more now on this subject. Believe you are my blessing
and infinite reward beyond possible desert in intention,--my life has
been crowned by you, as I said!

May God bless you ever--through you I shall be blessed. May I kiss
your cheek and pray this, my own, all-beloved?

I must add a word or two of other things. I am very well now, quite
well--am walking and about to walk. Horne, or rather his friends,
reside in the very lane Keats loved so much--Millfield Lane. Hunt lent
me once the little copy of the first Poems dedicated to him--and on
the title-page was recorded in Hunt's delicate characters that 'Keats
met him with this, the presentation-copy, or whatever was the odious
name, in M---- Lane--called Poets' Lane by the gods--Keats came
running, holding it up in his hand.' Coleridge had an affection for
the place, and Shelley '_knew_' it--and I can testify it is green and
silent, with pleasant openings on the grounds and ponds, through the
old trees that line it. But the hills here are far more open and wild
and hill-like; not with the et