One afternoon he used a scrap of poetry to light his pipe. Letting the paper burn and then char on the floor, he said:
“That was a poem well used.”
Was it another “Shepherd’s Song”?
I should have collected his works and seen them published. Now I could not track down his pieces. Ah, the shoulds of life...
This is the anniversary of his death, another churlish scruff of day with wretched rain...the rain it raineth every day...true, boy, come bring us to this hovel...the tyranny of the world is too rough at times...give me your hand.
Jonson received a letter from Ellen, Ellen in Edinburgh, writing at home, expressing her friendly concern for me:
“Will has written me but I am worried. Can you look after him?” She was afraid after Marlowe’s death. “Will you write and reassure me?” she asked. “Edinburgh is far... I’m sick with a cold...so much rain.”
And it was raining as Jonson read me her letter, in his apartment. I opened a book of his and leafed through it, standing by his window, the rain leaded on the pages, long, grey, thin lines, tracing problems that threatened us, a bond tying in with her concern, lessening that distance between us.
The wall felt damp to my shoulder and I smelled stale bread and stale cheese on Jonson’s desk.