O my dear Charles...

Is it all too quick for me to decide as mild a touch of snow kisses the ground outside. These drops of heavenly water, ah! these drops in sprinklings that fall, dews art they descending straight into a holy Grail.

I am unaware, forsooth, I am unaware. 

Do not ask of what, dare I not let thou unto this paving of some avenue that leads to this labyrinth of mine; Do not ask of the terror for will I say thee know it well too, and will I be doomed for a lie as such - 'tis mine and mine alone.

The spring tastes the blueberries in my garden. Lackaday! Do I not venture stepping in; I can't, but behold glances of some certain kind from my windowsill. And fallen raspberries art all I get to see.

The fire in the hearth I abut so inevitably fails to keep warm that the ice on my ceiling is now palpable on my skin - herald of an impending gardyloo.

I am the culpable one, I see...I see it now for I chose to close my eye. Did he see me?

Wears he the wool from my needles no longer, I only get his undone buttons to darn. Such passion must they see for blind art they to everything otherwise, this tapestry that is, alack! is that so untouched.

'T was a black vest the day afore, 'twas a lavender sash the day afore that. And 'tis the serviette so velvety today. Alas, what if 'tis merely his silhouette I find waiting by the wall of the Church? - Is it too much for me to envision.