I am not very well to-day—or, rather, have not been so—now, I am well and with you. I just say that, very needlessly, but for strict frankness' sake. Now, you are to write to me soon, and tell me all about your self, and to love me ever, as I love you ever, and bless you, and leave you in the hands of God—My own love!—
Tell me if I do wrong to send this by a morning post—so as to reach you earlier than the evening—when you will ... write to me?
Don't let me forget to say that I shall receive the Review to-morrow, and will send it directly.
E.B.B. to R.B.
Sunday.
[Post-mark, January 6, 1846.]
When you get Mr. Horne's book you will understand how, after reading just the first and the last poems, I could not help speaking coldly a little of it—and in fact, estimating his power as much as you can do, I did think and do, that the last was unworthy of him, and that the first might have been written by a writer of one tenth of his faculty. But last night I read the 'Monk of Swineshead Abbey' and the 'Three Knights of Camelott' and 'Bedd Gelert' and found them all of different stuff, better, stronger, more consistent, and read them with pleasure and admiration. Do you remember this application, among the countless ones of shadow to the transiency of life? I give the first two lines for clearness—
Like to the cloud upon the hill
We are a moment seen
Or the shadow of the windmill-sail
Across yon sunny slope of green.
Like to the cloud upon the hill
We are a moment seen
Or the shadow of the windmill-sail
Across yon sunny slope of green.
Like to the cloud upon the hill
We are a moment seen
Or the shadow of the windmill-sail
Across yon sunny slope of green.
Like to the cloud upon the hill
We are a moment seen
Or the shadow of the windmill-sail
Across yon sunny slope of green.