Beloved John
It is a long time since I thought about you; life has become more than adoration for a mere mask ... Adoration, yes, for on that day that I saw your death mask in an old, mouldy book in the public library, your face touched my heart immediately and deeply. The beautiful curve of forehead and brow; the fine bone structure and the sensitivity of soft lips underneath the straight and splendid line of nose took my breath away and moved the romantic and sensitive young girl that I was at that time!
I can remember how I stared at ear, eye and nostril, and thought: Now, in death, he hears, sees and smells perfectly. With my fingertip I traced the neat shell of ear, touched brow and lips. Of course I read all about you; how you suffered the losses of family, the failing relationship with your beloved Fanny, the jealousy of other writers. I went with you to Rome, to die of tuberculosis ... Yes. I saw your suffering; the blue of your lips when you gasped for breath. I was with you when you wrote: As last request, bury me under a tombstone reading, ''Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water."
Ah. I can understand why your name was not to appear on that stone. You never truly lived in this world. But, I can also understand why Severn and Brown added the epitaph: "This Grave contains all that was mortal, of a YOUNG ENGLISH POET, who on his Death Bed, in the Bitterness of his heart, at the Malicious Power of his enemies, desired these words to be engraven on his Tomb Stone."
I, too, know the destructive power of those who do not wish to see the sun shine on another; I, too, know of the jealousy of those who will crush another without blinking an eye, only to gain worldly acclaim. Yes. Apt the lyre with its broken strings: your song ended prematurely, and too abruptly. Little did you know, however, that your words would grow in wonderful depth and perspective, loved by those who read, and are still reading, and those who saw, and still truly see, your greatness!
Beloved John, your words will move me always toward a soft cry:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: – Do I wake or sleep?
In wakenness or in dream, may your soul rest of the torture of life, forever.
Love
Myra