I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been your miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is yourself. If all else perished, and you remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and you were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the tree. My love resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. I am you: you’re always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.