She had lived so deep a life in her world that I did not wish to
disturb it. I had but just released myself with difficulty from the
magic circle of these thoughts, and scarcely knew whether she had not
chosen the better part which could not be taken away from her; while we
have so much trouble and care.

Thus every evening brought its new conversation, and with each evening,
some new phase of her fathomless mind disclosed itself. She kept no
secret from me. Her talk was only thinking and feeling aloud, and what
she said must have dwelt with her many long years, for she poured out
her thoughts as freely as a child that picks its lap full of flowers
and then sprinkles them upon the grass. I could not disclose my soul
to her as freely as she did to me, and this oppressed and pained me.
Yet how few can, with those continual deceptions imposed upon us by
society, called manners, politeness, consideration, prudence, and
worldly wisdom, which make our entire life a masquerade! How few, even
when they would, can regain the complete truth of their existence!
Love itself dares not speak its own language and maintain its own
silence, but must learn the set phrases of the poet and idealize, sigh
and flirt instead of freely greeting, beholding and surrendering
itself, I would most gladly have confessed and said to her: "You know
me not," but I found that the words were not wholly true. Before I
left, I gave her a volume of Arnold's poems, which I had had a short
time, and begged her to read the one called "The Buried Life." It was
my confession, and then I kneeled at her couch and said "Good Night."
"Good Night," said she, and laid her hand upon my head, and again her
touch thrilled through, every limb and the dreams of childhood uprose
in my soul. I could not go, but gazed into her deep unfathomable eyes
until the peace of her soul completely overshadowed mine. Then I arose
and went home in silence--and in the night I dreamed of the silver