You by me,

And I by you; this is your hand in mine,
And side by side we sit: all's true. Thank God!
I have spoken: speak, you!
O, my life to come!
My Tydeus must be carved, that's there in clay;
Yet how be carved, with you about the chamber?
Where must I place you? When I think that once
This room-full of rough block-work seemed my heaven

Without you! Shall I ever work again,
Get fairly into my old ways again,
Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,
My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?
Will my mere fancies live near you, my truth—
The live truth, passing and repassing me,
Sitting beside me?
Now speak!
Only, first,

See, all your letters! Was't not well contrived?
Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keeps
Your letters next her skin: which drops out foremost?
Ah,—this that swam down like a first moonbeam
Into my world!
Again those eyes complete
Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow,

Of all my room holds; to return and rest
On me, with pity, yet some wonder too—
As if God bade some spirit plague a world,
And this were the one moment of surprise
And sorrow while she took her station, pausing
O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy!
What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of;
Let your first word to me rejoice them, too: