Which, by long intercourse of hand and brain,
Were specialised to typify and betray
The hiding spirit? There are such secrets here
As dazzle lovers’eyes. She will be mine.
She wrote me a letter once before in scorn,
With studied terms of coldness: yet to me
That seemed—I treasure it still—a lovers’meeting
Of our two names on the same conscious page,
A daring intimacy, her own betrothal.
Was I deceived boasting so crazed a title?