of my dearest anemone lady when they were looking gently—at me—and the beautiful hand, and the beautiful heart.
The awakening of my racked soul is hardly more heavily laden with passion and pain. I shall never forget.
Though I feel away from her also, she is the only one out of all to look gently at me.
Let me writhe and falter with pain; let me go mad—but oh, worldful of people—for the love of your God—give me out of this seething darkness only one beautiful human hand to touch mine with love, one beautiful human heart to know the aching sad loneliness of mine, one beautiful, human soul to mingle with mine in long, long Rest.
Oh, for a human being, my soul wails—a human being to love me!
Oh, to know—just once—what it is to be loved!
Nineteen years without one faint shadow of love is mouldy, crumbling age—is gray with the dust of centuries.
