But what will you say to me when I confess besides that, in the face of all your kind encouragement, my Drama of the Angels[25] has never been touched until the last three days?  It was not out of pure idleness on my part, nor of disregard to your admonition; but when my thoughts were distracted with other things, books just begun inclosing me all around, a whole load of books upon my conscience, I could not possibly rise up to the gate of heaven and write about my angels.  You know one can’t sometimes sit down to the sublunary, occupation of reading Greek, unless one feels free to it.  And writing poetry requires a double liberty, and an inclination which comes only of itself.

But I have begun.  I tried the blank metre once, and it would not do, and so I had to begin again in lyrics.  Something above an hundred lines is written, and now I am in two panics, just as if one were not enough.  First, because it seems to me a very daring subject—­a subject almost beyond our sympathies, and therefore quite beyond the sphere of human poetry.  Perhaps when all is written courageously, I shall have no courage left to publish it.  Secondly, because all my tendencies towards mysticism will be called into terrible operation by this dreaming upon angels.

    Yes; you will read a mystery,

but don’t make any rash resolutions about reading anything.  As I have begun, I certainly will go on with the writing.

Here is a question for you: 

Am I to accept your generous sacrifice of reading nine-tenths of my ‘Vow,’ as an atonement for your WANT OF CONFIDENCE IN ME?  Oh, your conscience will understand very well what I mean, without a dictionary.

Arabel and I intend to pay you a visit on Monday, and if we can, and it is convenient to you, we are inclined to invite ourselves to your dinner table.  But this is all dependent on the weather.

Believe me, dear Mr. Boyd, your affectionate friend,
E.B.  BARRETT.

[Footnote 24:  An allusion to the first line of ‘The Poet’s Vow.’]

[Footnote 25:  The ‘Seraphim,’ published in 1838.]

To H.S.  Boyd [74 Gloucester Place:] November 26, 1836 [postmark].

My dear Mr. Boyd,—­I have been so busy that I have not been able until this morning to take breath or inspiration to answer your lyrics.  You shall see me soon, but I am sorry to say it can’t be Monday or Tuesday.

I have had another note from the editor of the ’New Monthly Magazine’—­very flattering, and praying for farther supplies.  The Angels were not ready, and I was obliged to send something else, which I will not ask you to read.  So don’t be very uneasy.

Arabel’s and my best love to Annie.  And believe me in a great hurry, for I won’t miss this post,

Yours affectionately,
E.B.  BARRETT.

  Your lyrics found me dull as prose
  Among a file of papers
  And analysing London fogs
  To nothing but the vapours.