| January 1893, Babbacombe Cliff
My Own Boy,
Your sonnet is quite lovely, and it is a marvel that those red-roseleaf lips of yours
should be made no less for the madness of music and song than for the madness of kissing.
Your slim gilt soul walks between passion and poetry. I know Hyacinthus, whom Apollo loved
so madly, was you in Greek days. Why are you alone in London, and when do you go to
Salisbury? Do go there to cool your hands in the grey twilight of Gothic things, and come
here whenever you like. It is a lovely place and lacks only you; but go to Salisbury
first.
Always, with undying love,
Yours, OSCAR. |
