Tuesday.
November 4, 1845.
Only a word to tell you Moxon promises the books for to-morrow, Wednesday – – so towards evening yours will reach you – – ‘parve liber, sine me ibis’ . . . would I were by you, then and ever! You see, and know, and understand why I can neither talk to you, nor write to you now, as we are now; – – from the beginning, the personal interest absorbed every other, greater or smaller – – but as one cannot well, – – or should not, – – sit quite silently, the words go on, about Horne, or what chances – – while you are in my thought.
But when I have you . . . so it seems . . . in my very heart; when you are entirely with me – – oh, the day – – then it will all go better, talk and writing too.
Love me, my own love; not as I love you – – not for – – but I cannot write that. Nor do I ask anything, with all your gifts here, except for the luxury of asking. Withdraw nothing, then, dearest, from your
R.B.