How Do I Love Thee? Read Online Free PDF

childhood at Hope End, my mother’s death, the idiosyncrasies of my family, my health, and my hopes and dreams of literary greatness fell into the fresh air between us and were nourished by her kind interest.
    Burgeoned by the success of the day, the next night I did attend the dinner at Cousin John’s with Bro and with Miss Mitford also in attendance. I sat right next to Wordsworth, nearly fainting from the very thought of his proximity. And yet . . . he did not impress me as I had imagined he would. He was an old man, his eyes lacked fire, and his countenance was void of the animation I had expected of such a great man who had written words that sparked my very soul. It was rather disconcerting to have my image of him dashed.
    Another literary genius in attendance, who proved to be of far more interest, was Walter Savage Landor. He was opinionated, impetuous, high-spirited, and entertained Bro and me with witty epigrams. I enjoyed his presence as much as his work. His recently published Pentameron possessed some pages that were too delicious to turn over. On the way home, elated by the evening, I realized I had never walked in the skies before; and perhaps never would again when so many stars were out. I continued to live on those memories. . . .
    Memories.
    Suddenly, the memory of that special night faded, and another memory intruded. The words I had shared with Bro returned. I will die soon. The impulsive remark elicited great regret. Who was I to say such a thing? Who was I to complain about my lot? I was alive, and though I was not well, I needed to accept the benefit of my condition and go forth—for Bro’s sake, and for his honour.
    Yet my heart was not in it. Each breath required effort, each thought was pulled from my mind with force, and each daily task was attended to by rote and with little recognition or feeling. I went . . . on.
    What little energy I owned was used to mask my inner desolation from others who did not need to add worry for me to their burdens. I held my complaints in check and created a façade that carefully separated my serene appearance from the turmoil and angst which lay within.
    How I longed to fully be what I pretended to be. Although I doubted it was possible, I was determined to try.
    But who was I? Was I what people thought of me? Or someone altogether different?
    Although I wished to think otherwise, to most people I was “the invalid,” the middle-aged spinster who lay abed all day, rarely venturing out-of-doors. Added to that, I was the sister-in-mourning, a woman to be pitied. When people walked past this house, did they whisper such things to one another? “See that house there? The woman who lives there never comes out. Her brother drowned last year and she blames herself.”
    I looked towards the window, as if the parties in question were on the street outside. The people of Torquay had no reason to think any more of me. And beyond that . . . what more was there? Of me?
    I let the pen and paper renew its invitation.
    First and foremost, I was a writer. That was my calling, my destiny, my mission. The undefined illnesses that plagued my body did not define me. My mind, my thoughts, my feelings, my creativity . . . those were the things that determined who I was to myself and to the world. Those were the things that I had shoved aside after Bro’s death, and even before. I needed to regain the stimulation of intellectual discussion, the passion of thought, the exhilaration of imagination. . . . My book The Seraphim and Other Poems had been published in 1838, shortly before I moved to Torquay. I had been absent from London during the time when it had received its first response, its acclaim, however small. I had been set apart from its reality. Removed. Ostracized by circumstances beyond my control.
    But no more.
    I must reclaim the life I had once lived.
    How?
    I had to renew the correspondences which had previously brought me great joy and purpose. It was true that since