t no such another
mistake ought to be suffered, if you escape the effects of this. I
will not cease to believe in a better event, till the very last,
however, and it is a deep satisfaction that all has been made plain
and straight up to this strange and sad interposition like a bar. You
have done _your_ part, at least--with all that forethought and counsel
from friends and adequate judges of the case--so, if the bar _will_
not move, you will consider--will you not, dearest?--where one may
best encamp in the unforbidden country, and wait the spring and fine
weather. Would it be advisable to go where Mr. Kenyon suggested, or
elsewhere? Oh, these vain wishes ... the will here, and no means!

My life is bound up with yours--my own, first and last love. What
wonder if I feared to tire you--I who, knowing you as I do, admiring
what is so admirable (let me speak), loving what must needs be loved,
fain to learn what you only can teach; proud of so much, happy in so
much of you; I, who, for all this, neither come to admire, nor feel
proud, nor be taught,--but only, only to live with you and be by
you--that is love--for I _know_ the rest, as I say. I know those
qualities are in you ... but at them I could get in so many ways.... I
have your books, here are my letters you give me; you would answer my
questions were _I_ in Pisa--well, and it all would amount to nothing,
infinitely much as I know it is; to nothing if I could not sit by you
and see you.... I can stop at that, but not before. And it seems
strange to me how little ... less than little I have laid open of my
feelings, the nature of them to you--I smile to think how if all this
while I had been acting with the profoundest policy in intention, so
as to pledge myself to nothing I could not afterwards perform with the
most perfect ease and security, I should have done not much unlike
what I _have_ done--to be sure, one word includes many or all ... but
I have not said ... what I will not even now say ... you will
_know_--in God's time to which I trust.

I will answer your note now--the questions. I did go--(it may amuse
you to write on)--to Moxon's. First let me tell you that when I called
there the Saturday before, his brother (in his absence) informed me,
replying to the question when it came naturally in turn with a round
of like enquiries, that your poems continued to sell 'singularly
well'--they would 'end in bringing a clear profit,' he said. I thought
to catch him,