The no Titled Ulysses

Carpe Diem

Have I never told you enough how I love you? Dearest, I have no words for all my love: I have no pride in me. Does not this alone tell you?--You are sending me away, and I cry to you to spare me. Can I love you more than that? What will you have of me that I have not given? Oh, you, the sun in my dear heavens--if I lose you, what is left of me? Could you break so to pieces even a woman you did not love? And me you _do_ love,--you _do_. Between all this denial of me, and all this silence of words that you have put your name to, I see clearly that you are still my lover. Your writing breaks with trying not to say it: you say again and again that there is no fault in me. I swear to you, dearest, there is none, unless it be loving you: and how can you mean that? For what are you and I made for unless for each other? With all our difference people tell us we are alike. We were shaped for each other from our very birth. Have we not proved it in a hundred days of happiness, which have lifted us up to the blue of a heaven higher than any birds ever sang? And now you say--taking on you the blame for the very life-blood in us both--that the fault is yours, and that your fault is to have allowed me to love you and yourself to love me!