[Postmark: June 27, 1846]
Friday Evening.
Ever dearest, I send you a bare line to-night, for it is late
and I am very tired ; having . . while you were sitting by
the fire . . been, for my part, driving to Highgate . . now
think of that ! Also it has done me good, I think, and
I shall sleep for it to-night perhaps, though I am tired
certainly.
Your letter shall be answered to-morrow – and here is a
green answer to your leaves ! – what leaves ? whence and
how ? My green little branch, I gathered myself out of the
hedge, snatching at it from the carriage- window. The roses
were gone, or nearly gone, and the few left, quite out of
reach ; and the leaves keep behind to assure you that they
do not look for snow-storms in September. No ! it was not
that, they said. I am belying what they said.
I gathered them in the hedge of the pretty close green
lane which you go through to Hampstead. Were you ever
there, I wonder ?
Dearest, I will write to-morrow. Never are you ‘ im-
patient,’ inconsiderate – and as for selfishness, I have been
uneasy sometimes, precisely because you are so little selfish.
I am not likely to mistake . . to wrench the wrong way . .
any word of yours. As for mine, it was not a mere word,
when I said that you should decide everything. Could I
hold out for November, or October, or for September even,
if you choose against ? Indeed I could not. We – you will
think – I am yours, and if you never repent that, I shall not
– I am too entirely yours.
And so good-night – dearest beloved ! Because you
have a fire in June, is the snow to fall in September, and
earth and ocean to become impassable ? Ah well ! we shall
see ! But you shall not see that I deceive you –
I am your very own
Ba.
Dear brown leaves ! where did they come from, besides
from you ?
Not a north wind. Only a north-west wind, as I could
have proved to you if you had been with me ! Yet it is a
detestable climate, this English climate, let us all confess.
Say how your head is.