other excellence, the fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought; but in this addressing myself to you—your ownself, and for the first time, my feeling rises altogether.
I do, as I say, love these books with my heart and I love you too. Do you know I was once not very far from seeing—really seeing you? Mr. Kenyon said to me one morning “Would you like to see Miss Barrett?” then he went to announce me,—then he returned… you were too unwell, and now it is years ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if I had been close, so close, to some world's—wonder in chapel or crypt, only a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some slight, so it now seems, slight and just sufficient bar to admission, and the half?opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles, and the sight was never to be?
Well, these Poems were to be, and this true thankful joy and pride with which I feel myself,