Letter from Edward Thomas to his wife, Helen Thomas. Archival reference: 424/1/1/1/1/61
17 Woodville Street
Pontardulais

6.viii.98

My dearest Friend,
Now I can write to you in
something like tranquillity, for my cousins
are at work. Reggie is addling his stupid
brains over history. My time is so little my
own here, that I find time for nothing,
though it is always certain that some part of
every day I shall be bye to myself : and that
is why my letters have been so few, so
short, so flighty. I neglect everything
very little Oxford work as yet ; hardly
any serious literary reading; practically no
writing, or nothing satisfactory. So I have
seemed to neglect you also , have contented
myself apparently with a dim vision of you at
night , when a more concentrated gaze would
have shown you clear & naked & close. But then

beautiful features, no beautiful voice. He never
argues or contradicts; in fact Arthur's conversation
is more bracing : still we may get on better
in time. So far I have not once been set thinking
by him . In a sense, too, he's very narrow ;- he
cannot read White's Selborne.

Well, tomorrow I am going with him to
a lovely place called Llandilo in Caermarthen, (sic) -
at least, a place near there. It is a farm ;
& we shall spend Friday night there, returning
on Saturday. Near it are several famous
places, & several places not famous but very
remarkable , - a magnificent castle,
& other ruins. Gronga Hill is near
there. Did you ever hear me speak of
John Dyer, who wrote "The Flea", & Grongar
Hill"? He is an insignificant poet of last
century, who nevertheless shows faint
promise of what Wordsworth actually performed
60 years later.

Yes, I shall be away nearly two
days. Won't you send me a letter to greet me

all my surroundings are pleasant. I find things so
pleasant that I have very few memories &
recollections . One memory I have , constant ,
immense , tyrannous. It is you, little one . It
is the one thing which does really bind me to the
past, the future, & to my genuine existence, of which this
holiday is only a gay interlude. But let us have
no more of this self examination & anatomizing .

Yet it Expresses my real self ; not nearly so unhealthy as
before , but more practical , perhaps more sane ; a
self that never dares to attempt what it does not
understand , as before I used; in my writing for
instance , I am often paralysed in contemplating
a fact, a fact which only enormous toil can describe,
- a colour, an outline , a bulk , for Example.

It is another Example of the alteration in me ,
that I wish my sight were not so powerful &
so cunning . For it leads me farther than my
brain can really pursue . Last year I should
have attempted to describe this whole neighbourhood,
with the vast moutainous horizon of many
leagues ; now I want to shut myself up in a
a dark corner & draw three leaves and a luminous
drop of rain , & dare not look up at the sky. Still, if
I am ever to be an artist, I am more so now than
ever before . Now, at least, I draw what I see ;
formerly I drew what I dreamt or thought I saw.

However! (this "however is the result of my
splendid digestion and the slight lethargy of an
afternoon without exercise.)

Not that I spend much time indoors. This
morning I was out for two or three hours on the
mountain, raking the bracken which my
cousins had mowed - just like raking hay ;
under a strong sun & lively wind. They use the
fern for litter for the pigs. It was a pleasant
exercise: in the intervals I read Romeo & Juliet, or
talked.

I see a good deal of Gwili now, with some
enjoyment but not much satisfaction. He, also, is
too lenient. Sometimes his acquiescence is
ludicrous. Also he is not very spirited ; or,
rather, perhaps, it is the fact that he does
not express his spirits in a beautiful way, he has not

on my return? I have been expecting a letter for a long time now. And why haven't you been to see Mother? I am surprised and sorry; Mother was complaining.
Irene has not written, or returned my article; so I am still in expectation. Did she express an opinion on it? I shall write to her very soon. I hope, - and to Mrs. Noble.
How tedious I grow! I shall not be able to picture you quite as I should wish until you write fully and comfortably. Won't you?
I am so anxious to see your lips and smile, to see your eyes; to hear your dress flying round your rapid limbs; to see your breast and your hair. Give me some of your heart’s warmth and colour: tell me of your dreams, your nights, and of the thousand incidents of your healthy day. How my body and my thoughts are burning for you at this moment! and the other night I dreamt - however languidly and vaguely - that I encircled your body in
embrace. Did you dream it, too? Did
you not open your eyes as I sat up
and held your head between my arms and
kissed your brow and let my hand wander
through your hair or about your limbs?
Dearest Helen, come to me only the
east where moon rises
night yes night.
I saw it as it gained the mountain's edge last
night. Come and laugh me to scorn, and
scold me and stroke me with your eyes,
kiss me happily and hopefully. Now we will
kiss - and surely both are happy. In life I am
your truest fondest friend Edw, and you ever my own
sweet little one, my anemone maiden. Dearest
and kindest friend, Helen. Goodbye. I am wholly
yours, and no part of me belongs to another.
I could love another, perhaps; but no one else
satisfies me, no one else loves me, at all.
Goodbye, and be at rest. Adieu.