Robert and Elizabeth

New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.

Jan. 13, 1845.

Dear Miss Barrett,  – – I just shall say, in as few words as I can, that you make me very happy, and that, now the beginning is over, I dare say I shall do better, because my poor praise, number one, was nearly as felicitously brought out, as a certain tribute to no less a personage than Tasso, which I was amused with at Rome some weeks ago, in a neat pencilling on the plaister-wall by his tomb at Sant’Onofrio  – – ‘Alla cara memoria  – – di  – – (please fancy solemn interspaces and grave capital letters at the new lines) di  – – Torquato Tasso  – – il Dottore Bernardini  – – offriva  – – il seguente Carme  – – O tu‘  – – and no more,  – – the good man, it should seem, breaking down with the overload of love here! But my ‘O tu’  – – was breathed out most sincerely, and now you have taken it in gracious part, the rest will come after. Only,  – – and which is why I write now  – – Continue reading “#3”

50 Wimpole Street: Jan. 11, 1845.

I thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart. You meant to give me pleasure by your letter — and even if the object had not been answered, I ought still to thank you. Continue reading “#2”

New Cross, Hatcham, Surrey.
January 10, 1845.

I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,  – – and this is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,  – – whatever else, no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius, and there a graceful and natural end of the thing. Since the day last week when I first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you of their effect upon me, for in the first flush of delight I thought I would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration  – – perhaps even, as a loyal fellow-craftsman should, try and find fault and do you some little good to be proud of hereafter!  – – but nothing comes of it all  – – so into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living poetry of yours, not a flower of which but took root and grew  – – Oh, how different that is from lying to be dried and pressed flat, and prized highly, and put in a book with a proper account at top and bottom, and shut up and put away  . . . and the book called a ‘Flora,’ besides! After all, I need not give up the thought of doing that, too, in time; because even now, talking with whoever is worthy, I can give a reason for my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought; but in this addressing myself to you  – – your own self, and for the first time, my feeling rises altogether. I do, as I say, love these books with all my heart  – – and I love you too. Do you know I was once not very far from seeing  – – really seeing you? Mr. Kenyon said to me one morning ‘Would you like to see Miss Barrett?’ then he went to announce me,  – – then he returned  . . . you were too unwell, and now it is years ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if I had been close, so close, to some world’s-wonder in chapel or crypt, only a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some slight, so it now seems, slight and just sufficient bar to admission, and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles, and the sight was never to be?

Well, these Poems were to be, and this true thankful joy and pride with which I feel myself,

 Yours ever faithfully,

Robert Browning.

Miss Barrett,

50 Wimpole St.
R. Browning.