February 19, 1892
C/O Witch Weekly

Dear F,

I send my fond regards and hope you are doing well. I was reading Shakespeare's sonnets this afternoon and I thought of you when I saw my favorite sonnet. I've enclosed it below.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill
Some in their wealth, some in their body's force,
Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest;
But theses pariculars are not my measure,
All these I better in one general best.
They love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks and horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
All this away, and me most wretched make.

I find there is something so pontient in Shakespeare's work and while I enjoy poets such as Keats and Bryon I am often draw back to the earlier works such as Shakespeare. Do you also enjoy him? Indeed, I must ask, whom is your favorite poet.

Most Sincerely,
D.H.P.

Witch Weekly/Holly Scrimgeour

The following 1 user Likes Dahlia Honeyduke's post:1 user Likes Dahlia Honeyduke's post
   Barnaby Wye

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Mr. Fortitude Greengrass
Witch Weekly is pleased to inform you that your recent submission to our Lonely Hearts article has generated a response. Witch Weekly is devoted to providing help to all of our readers, no matter what their social disadvantages, and we are delighted to provide this service to the lovelorn in our magical community. We hope that you will be able to create a happy ending with our help, instead of being doomed to a tragically lonely life.

Please see the enclosed letter and advise us whether you will need your advertisement repeated in further issues of our magazine.
Y. Ventus
Editor in Chief
Witch Weekly

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Fortitude Greengrass

  

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Ford recognized the letter immediately. His office had been in receipt of enough of these in the past week, on behalf of one Barnaby Wye, that it was impossible to mistake Witch Weekly's seal on the envelope. At first he assumed that someone at their office had realized Wye's letters might as well come directly to him, until he peeled back the form letter to reveal his own name at the top of the paper. Obviously he hadn't submitted an advertisement, but he had some strong suspicions of who might have. He was annoyed, and opened the anonymous letter with the intention of finding out exactly how annoyed he ought to be — of trying to work backwards and deduce how many liberties Wye might have taken when drafting up the advertisement on his behalf. Only — oh. She'd sent him a poem.

It was unexpectedly thoughtful. Ford had expected anyone replying to a Lonely Hearts advertisement would be either openly mercenary or coquetteish in the way debutantes were when they were angling for something they weren't allowed to actually ask for. He had expected anyone writing would have an agenda, which would be apparent in one way or another. He had not expected Shakespeare.

Still, he couldn't write her back. Since he hadn't been the one to place the ad, anything he wrote to her would be under false pretenses. At least, that was his original opinion. By the next morning, he'd come around to thinking he should, if only briefly. She'd taken the trouble of copying down a sonnet, so the least he could do would be to respond and let her know that this was all a mistake. It would be impolite to let her letter go entirely unanswered, even if he wasn't in a position to actually correspond with her in good faith.

That entire day at work he had half his mind working to draft up a response, with no luck. Anything he came up with sounded too abrupt and stiff, entirely inappropriate after the sincerity of her letter, whoever she was. That evening at home he scratched out a few attempts, scrapped them all, then reread her letter a few times. She wanted to know who his favorite poet was. Ford considered the bookshelf above his desk for a moment, then started the letter anew.

22 February 1892

Miss DHP,

Asking me to choose my favorite poet is like asking someone to choose their favorite sunset; they are each exquisite and perfect for a time, aren't they? There are moments made for Keats and Tennyson and Shakespeare and in those moments no other one would do quite as well.

If we're speaking only of love poems, I'll admit to a favorite, although an unconventional choice: Edgar Allen Poe. He's mostly known for his macabre themes, but I think that makes his love poetry all the more visceral — and I think perhaps you might appreciate what I mean, given your favorite sonnet ends with the threat of loss. Consider:

Thou wast all that to me, love,
For which my soul did pine-
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!”- but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! me
The light of Life is o’er!
“No more- no more- no more-"
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams-
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

Technically he's conveyed all the sentiment in the first two lines, but it's not until the loss that you really begin to feel what he means. "And all my days are trances, and all my nightly dreams are where thy grey eye glances, and where thy footstep gleams." You feel it deep down in your chest, by then.

And besides, Poe's cadence is always so fun to read — if you've never read one of his poems out loud before, you're missing out on a wonderful experience.

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He had not done a very good job of explaining he hadn't placed the advertisement and was not in the market for companionship. Ford read over what he had written thus far and considered.

He had a lonely heart, was the thing. He might not have placed the ad, but would it be the most terrible thing to respond to this unknown woman who had sent him Shakespeare? The letter he'd written seemed like the most genuine conversation he'd had in weeks.

I send my fond regards and hope you are also well. Most sincerely,

F

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Set by Lady!