My Letters! all dead paper. . . (Sonnet XXVIII)

    My Letters! all dead paper. . . (Sonnet XXVIII)

    My letters! all dead paper, mute and we!

    And yet they seem alive and quivering

    Against my tremulous ring

    And let tonight.

    to

    Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring

    to come and touching,

    Yes I  for itamp;#8212;t. . .

    Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed

    As if Gods future t.

    ts ink has paled

    it my  t beat too fast.

    And thy words have ill availed

    If,  at last!