working out of the plan, singularly
expressive of various faculty.

Is the poem under your thumb, emerging from it? and in what metre? May
I ask such questions?

And does Mr. Carlyle tell you that he has forbidden all 'singing' to
this perverse and froward generation, which should work and not sing?
And have you told Mr. Carlyle that song is work, and also the
condition of work? I am a devout sitter at his feet--and it is an
effort to me to think him wrong in anything--and once when he told me
to write prose and not verse, I fancied that his opinion was I had
mistaken my calling,--a fancy which in infinite kindness and
gentleness he stooped immediately to correct. I never shall forget the
grace of that kindness--but then! For _him_ to have thought ill of
_me_, would not have been strange--I often think ill of myself, as God
knows. But for Carlyle to think of putting away, even for a season,
the poetry of the world, was wonderful, and has left me ruffled in my
thoughts ever since. I do not know him personally at all. But as his
disciple I ventured (by an exceptional motive) to send him my poems,
and I heard from him as a consequence. 'Dear and noble' he is
indeed--and a poet unaware of himself; all but the sense of music. You
feel it so--do you not? And the 'dear sir' has let him have the
'letter of Cromwell,' I hope; and satisfied 'the obedient servant.'
The curious thing in this world is not the stupidity, but the
upper-handism of the stupidity. The geese are in the Capitol, and the
Romans in the farmyard--and it seems all quite natural that it should
be so, both to geese and Romans!

But there are things you say, which seem to me supernatural, for
reasons which I know and for reasons which I don't know. You will let
me be grateful to you,--will you not? You must, if you will or not.
And also--I would not wait for more leave--if I could but see your
desk--as I do your death's heads and the spider-webs appertaining; but
the soul of Cornelius Agrippa fades from me.

Ever faithfully yours,

ELIZABETH B. BARRETT.

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Wednesday Morning--Spring!
[Post-mark, February 26, 1845.]

Real warm Spring, dear Miss Barrett, and the birds know it; and in
Spring I shall see you, surely see you--for when did I once fail to
get whatever I had set my heart upon? As I ask my