Letter LXIII

If you would read them again, you would come back to me. Those little
throats of happiness would be too strong for you. And so you lay them in
a cruel grave of lavender,--"Lavender for forgetfulness" might be
another song for Ophelia to sing.

I am weak with writing to you, I have written too long: this is twice
to-day.

I do not write to make myself more miserable: only to fill up my time.

When I go about something definite, I can do it:--to ride, or read aloud
to the old people, or sit down at meals with them is very easy; but I
cannot make employment for myself--that requires too much effort of
invention and will: and I have only will for one thing in life--to get
through it: and no invention to the purpose. Oh, Beloved, in the grave I
shall lie forever with a lock of your hair in my hand. I wonder if,
beyond there, one sees anything? My eyes ache to-day from the brain,
which is always at blind groping for you, and the point where I missed
you.