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Elizabeth Barrett Browning - Sonnet XXVIII: My Letters
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My letters — all dead paper, mute and white! 
And yet they seem alive and quivering 
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string 
And let them drop down on my knee to-night, 
This said, — he wished to have me in his sight 
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring 
To come and touch my hand … a simple thing, 
Yet I wept for it! — this … the paper`s light … 
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed 
As if God`s future thundered on my past. 
This said, I am thine — and so its ink has paled 
With lying at my heart that beat too fast. 
And this … O Love, thy words have ill availed 
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
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