Letter LXV

Are not the die and the coin that comes from it only two sides of the
same form?--there is not a hair's breadth anywhere between their
surfaces where they lie, the one inclosing the other. Yet part them, and
the light strikes on them how differently! That is a mere condition of
light: join them in darkness, where the light cannot strike, and they
are the same--two faces of a single form. So you and I, dear, when we
are dead, shall come together again, I trust. Or are we to come back to
each other defaced and warped out of our true conjunction? I think not:
for if you have changed, if soul can ever change, I shall be melted
again by your touch, and flow to meet all the change that is in you,
since my true self is to be you.

Oh, you, my Beloved, do you wake happy, either with or without thoughts
of me? I cannot understand, but I trust that it may be so. If I could
have a reason why I have so passed out of your life, I could endure it
better. What was in me that you did not wish? What was in you that I
must not wish for evermore? If the root of this separation was in you,
if in God's will it was ordered that we were to love, and, without
loving less, afterwards be parted, I could acquiesce so willingly. But
it is this knowing nothing that overwhelms me:--I strain my eyes for
sight and can't see; I reach out my hands for the sunlight and am given
great handfuls of darkness. I said to you the sun had dropped out of my
heaven.--My dear, my dear, is this darkness indeed you? Am I in the mold
with my face to yours, receiving the close impression of a misery in
which we are at one? Are you, dearest, hungering and thirsting for me,
as I now for you?