Letter LXXVI

Because I am suffering, you shall not think I am entirely miserable. But
here and now I am all unfinished ends. Desperately I need faith at times
to tell me that each shoot of pain has a point at which it assuages
itself and becomes healing: that pain is not endurance wasted; but that
I and my weary body have a goal which will give a meaning to all this,
somehow, somewhere: never, I begin to fear, here, while this body has
charge of me.

Dearest, I lay my heart down on yours and cry: and having worn myself
out with it and ended, I kiss your lips and bless God that I have known
you.

I have not said--I never could say it--"Let the day perish wherein Love
was born!" I forget nothing of you: you are clear to me,--all but one
thing: why we have become as we are now, one whole, parted and sent
different ways. And yet so near! On my most sleepless nights my pillow
is yours: I wet your face with my tears and cry, "Sleep well."

To-night also, Beloved, sleep well! Night and morning I make you my
prayer.