23 May, 1891

V. Macnair,
Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit?
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root.

That's from Locksley Hall. It's a poem about someone who's in love with their cousin. It doesn't work out well for them.

I'm not sending you this, obviously.

F. Greengrass

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   Valerian Macnair

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Set by Lady!

28 May, 1891

V. Macnair,
Comfort? Comfort scorned of devils! this is truth the poet sings,
That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things

Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof,
in the dead unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall,
where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall.

Locksley Hall again. It's been a rough week. Lots of dead unhappy nights staring at the wall. My bed is tiny compared to yours but it feels so big and empty when I'm here all by myself. If I'd known what this week was going to be like maybe I wouldn't have wanted to break things off when I did because the timing of all of this is really awful. Not that seeing you this week would have helped anything, probably.

F. Greengrass

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   Valerian Macnair

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Set by Lady!

31 May, 1891

V. Macnair,
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise from the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Same poet, different poem. This one's called The Princess. Maybe I should put this book away and try a different one. Maybe Alfred Lord Tennyson just writes poems for people who are miserable. I don't think choosing another poet would make much difference, though. I think I'd probably feel it no matter what I'm reading. Mondays are especially hard, because there's this empty space after dinner where I used to go see you and now there's nothing to distract me from remembering it.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

Same poem, a few stanzas later. I'm not in love with you, or anything. I just like some of those lines. Deep as remembered kisses on lips that are for others; wild with all regret. I wonder if you feel that way, too. I keep thinking about the look on your face after I kissed you for the last time, before you told me to go. It surprised me then and I still don't know what to think of it. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.

F. Greengrass

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   Angelica Selwyn, Valerian Macnair

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Set by Lady!

7 June, 1891

V. Macnair,
I'm not writing down any poetry this time, because I've still been reading the same book by Alfred, Lord Tennyson and the whole rest of it is devoted to this long poem called "In Memoriam." He wrote it about his friend who had died and it's beautiful and tragic and there are dozens of lines that I could copy down that make me think of you, except that's an insult to people who are actually grieving real things. Some people really were in love and the people they loved died and they're never going to see them again and that's the sort of person "In Memoriam" is written for. The poet didn't write all this so that I could copy down lines to make myself feel better about some stupid crush I never should have had in the first place.

F. Greengrass
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel —

(couldn't help it, it fit so well)

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   Valerian Macnair

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Set by Lady!

12 June, 1891

V. Macnair,
I thought I was going to go a week without writing one of these but then you had to come over and talk to me at that party tonight and then I couldn't fall asleep afterwards because I just kept thinking about it, so I tried to read and obviously everything made me think about it more. Here's some lines from 'Isolation' which is about exactly what you might imagine:

The heart can bind itself alone,
And faith may oft be unreturned.
Self-swayed our feelings ebb and swell -
Thou lov'st no more - Farewell! Farewell!

Farewell! - and thou, thou lonely heart,
Which never yet without remorse
Even for a moment didst depart
From thy remote and sphered course
To haunt the place where passions reign -
Back to thy solitude again!

That description of people who were in love haunting the place where passions reigned really stood out to me. I hadn't ever thought of it before but I suppose it's something to be glad of; that we only ever met at your house and I don't have to see those rooms in any other context. And I suppose it's fine for you, since you're — well. It's different for you. At least I think it is. Sometimes I don't know.

F. Greengrass

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   Valerian Macnair

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Set by Lady!

16 June, 1891

V. Macnair,
Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?

I know the answer, to the question he's asking: yes. So many things I didn't say to you on Saturday. So many letters I haven't sent you, hm? But maybe it's not fair to try and say I know the answer, because he's asking about love, and I don't know whether I know anything about that. Same poet as before, in case you cared (ha! as if I'm writing a letter you'd actually ever read). This one's called "The Buried Life" which really summarizes the way I feel about everything pretty well, honestly. No need to even get into the poem at all when just the title will do. But the poem is nice, even if I'm not sure he's talking about me. Right after those lines it continues:

I knew the mass of men concealed
Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;

Which doesn't describe our situation at all, either. I suppose if I told you everything and was met With blank indifference, or with blame reproved it might be a little discouraging, but it'd be no more than I expected. That's the only reason I said as much as I did when we ended things, because I didn't think there was any danger that you'd care what I was thinking or feeling. I can handle that. But sometimes I wonder about those little moments — the look on your face after our last kiss or the way you touched my leg with your thumb last Saturday — and I don't know what to think of those, and that's why I wouldn't tell you.

Well, that, and it wouldn't make any difference, so there's not really any point embarrassing myself over it.

Maybe that just means I'm not in love. Or maybe Matthew Arnold, the poet, wouldn't think so, anyway. He's probably right. I'm probably not.

F. Greengrass

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   Valerian Macnair

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Set by Lady!

24 June, 1891

V. Macnair,
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on forever unexpressed.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well—but 'tis not true!

I thought I was finished with these stupid letters, honestly, but then yesterday we received the invitation to your wedding and now — well, you know. Back where I was last week, re-reading poems I've read a dozen times before, except now all the lines seem to be about you, about me, about us. Someone told me once that the only reason I didn't write poetry of my own was that I'd never been in love. I made some joke about avoiding love so I didn't have to embarrass myself with any bad verse. I still haven't written any poems. I don't know if I ever will.

F. Greengrass

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   Valerian Macnair

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Set by Lady!