N.
At long intervals, dearest, I write to you a secret all about yourself for my eyes to see: because, chiefly because, I have not you to look at. Thus I bless myself with you.
Away over the world west of this and a little bit north is the city of spires where you are now. Never having seen it I am the more free to picture it as I like: and to me it is quite full of you:—quite greedily full, Beloved, when elsewhere you are so much wanted! I send my thoughts there to pick up crumbs for me.
It is a strange blend of notions—wisdom and ignorance combined: for you I seem to know perfectly; but of your life nothing at all. And yet nobody there knows so much about you as I. What you do matters so much less than what you are. You, who are the clearest heart in all the world, do what you will, you are so still to me, Beloved.
I take a happy armful of thoughts about you into all my dreams: and when I wake they are there still, and have done nothing but remain true. What better can I ask of them?
You do love me: you have not changed? Without change I remain yours so long as I live.