I love your verses with all my heart, dear Miss Barrett,—­and this is no off-hand complimentary letter that I shall write,—­whatever else, no prompt matter-of-course recognition of your genius, and there a graceful and natural end of the thing.  Since the day last week when I first read your poems, I quite laugh to remember how I have been turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you of their effect upon me, for in the first flush of delight I thought I would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment, when I do really enjoy, and thoroughly justify my admiration—­perhaps even, as a loyal fellow-craftsman should, try and find fault and do you some little good to be proud of hereafter!—­but nothing comes of it all—­so into me has it gone, and part of me has it become, this great living poetry of yours, not a flower of which but took root and grew—­Oh, how different that is from lying to be dried and pressed flat, and prized highly, and put in a book with a proper account at top and bottom, and shut up and put away ... and the book called a ‘Flora,’ besides!  After all, I need not give up the thought of doing that, too, in time; because even now, talking with whoever is worthy, I can give a reason for my faith in one and another excellence, the fresh strange music, the affluent language, the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought; but in this addressing myself to you—­your own self, and for the first time, my feeling rises altogether.  I do, as I say, love these books with all my heart—­and I love you too.  Do you know I was once not very far from seeing—­really seeing you?  Mr. Kenyon said to me one morning ‘Would you like to see Miss Barrett?’ then he went to announce me,—­then he returned ... you were too unwell, and now it is years ago, and I feel as at some untoward passage in my travels, as if I had been close, so close, to some world’s-wonder in chapel or crypt, only a screen to push and I might have entered, but there was some slight, so it now seems, slight and just sufficient bar to admission, and the half-opened door shut, and I went home my thousands of miles, and the sight was never to be?

Well, these Poems were to be, and this true thankful joy and pride with which I feel myself,

Yours ever faithfully,

RobertBrowning.

Miss Barrett,[1]
  50 Wimpole St.
R. Browning.

[Footnote 1:  With this and the following letter the addresses on the envelopes are given; for all subsequent letters the addresses are the same.  The correspondence passed through the post.]

E.B.B. to R.B.

50 Wimpole Street:  Jan. 11, 1845.

I thank you, dear Mr. Browning, from the bottom of my heart.  You meant to give me pleasure by your letter—­and even if the object had not been answered, I ought still to thank you.  But it is thoroughly answered.  Such a letter from such a hand!  Sympathy is dear—­very dear to me:  but the sympathy of a poet, and of such a poet, is the quintessence of sympathy to me!  Will you take back my gratitude for it?—­agreeing, too, that of all the commerce done in the world, from Tyre to Carthage, the exchange of sympathy for gratitude is the most princely thing!