arved speech in Mr. Kenyon and others. If my poetry is
worth anything to any eye, it is the flower of me. I have lived most
and been most happy in it, and so it has all my colours; the rest of
me is nothing but a root, fit for the ground and the dark. And if I
write all this egotism, ... it is for shame; and because I feel
ashamed of having made a fuss about what is not worth it; and because
you are extravagant in caring so for a permission, which will be
nothing to you afterwards. Not that I am not touched by your caring so
at all! I am deeply touched now; and presently, ... I shall
understand. Come then. There will be truth and simplicity for you in
any case; and a friend. And do not answer this--I do not write it as a
fly trap for compliments. Your spider would scorn me for it too much.
Also, ... as to the how and when. You are not well now, and it cannot
be good for you to do anything but be quiet and keep away that
dreadful musical note in the head. I entreat you not to think of
coming until _that_ is all put to silence satisfactorily. When it is
done, ... you must choose whether you would like best to come with Mr.
Kenyon or to come alone--and if you would come alone, you must just
tell me on what day, and I will see you on any day unless there should
be an unforeseen obstacle, ... any day after two, or before six. And
my sister will bring you up-stairs to me; and we will talk; or _you_
will talk; and you will try to be indulgent, and like me as well as
you can. If, on the other hand, you would rather come with Mr. Kenyon,
you must wait, I imagine, till June,--because he goes away on Monday
and is not likely immediately to return--no, on Saturday, to-morrow.

In the meantime, why I should be '_thanked_,' is an absolute mystery
to me--but I leave it!

You are generous and impetuous; _that_, I can see and feel; and so far
from being of an inclination to mistrust you or distrust you, I do
profess to have as much faith in your full, pure loyalty, as if I had
known you personally as many years as I have appreciated your genius.
Believe this of me--for it is spoken truly.

In the matter of Shakespeare's 'poor players' you are severe--and yet
I was glad to hear you severe--it is a happy excess, I think. When men
of intense reality, as all great poets must be, give their hearts to
be trodden on and tied up with ribbons in turn, by men of masks, there
will be torture if there is not desecration. Not that I know much of