“Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.”
My dear sweet little ‘A’,
Such were the last words you wrote in one of your letters. Such were the words that drew me closer to the hope of finding you, of reaching out my hand to the stars wishing that they would align the day we finally meet.
These days I keep imagining how your voice would sound, how gentle your breathing would sound had you actually whispered those lines to my ears, how our voices would blend into an uncanny harmony unique only to the two of us.
How I long to brush your hair away when gentle strands start to cover your face as you read me these words! How I long to touch your face as a testimony that I am indeed with you! But all of that is nothing but distant images from my own imagination.
Do let me at least try to return the favor even in this piece of letter. Let me read to you (in this case, let me write to you) one of Shakespeare’s sonnets that have captivated me the moment I picked up the habit of reading any of his sonnets every time I think of you and yearn for you.
Weary with toil, I haste to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired,
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind when body’s work expired.
For then my thoughts, far from where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see;
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents my shadow to my sightless view,
Which like a jewel hung in ghastly night
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.