Letter from Edward Thomas to his wife, Helen Thomas. Archival reference: 424/1/1/1/1/66
17 Woodville St
18.vii.98

I send you heartsease, in your last letter but one you say it always & send it; do I send it still. Goodbye little one. I will
look for more for you in Golden Grove & in (illegible) places tomorrow.

My dearest friend,

Whilst you were enjoying Tuesday among the healthy downs of Holmwood, I too was living in a similar way. I was binding
sheaves, hard at work, in the strong sun. It was the first time I had done it; all physical work delights me; the smell of the wheat field was sweet ; and so I enjoyed it. I don't suppose I thought at all, certainly of no persons ; but simply worked on & on, looking at the purple flowers of scabious that came in numbers with each sheaf as the reaper cut it down. Afterwards I had tea
on the field, against a cock of wheat, with the reapers & binders,
which was also new & delightful. Then I returned home, & in the
morning I had one of your perfect letters, Such as I have seen so
often lately; the pleasure it gave was also perfect.
So I am annoyed at this mornings letter, but also sorry that I should
have suffered your temper in the least degree.
Certainly I was not teasing you, with a thought of making you jealous; as a matter

of fact I thought you would take no notice of it;
for you had not Done in a like occasion before.
It is merely a relief to look at a-neither pretty, un beautiful un lovely
handsome girl in this abode of ignorance & mediocrity in looks,
That is all. Some of my fancies were perhaps extravagant, though I invented them at the moment, even with a thought of amusing you, and never gave them a thought since. If you are jealous, you are jealous utterly without shadow of cause. Still I go almost daily to my cousins house simply because she is there; it is-as (illegible)- a relief; besides,she is very clever with her fingers, & makes admirable lace of intricate patterns. Come Helen, do not let us talk of it any more.
My breast nearly storms & smothers at the thought of any one but you; it is of you that I dream of of I dream at all; (illegible) any flowers I may grow to you. But, as you say, you were tired; I fear not healthily.
If I may guess, it is about now that you

should be taking unusual care of yourself, is it not?
Really Helen, I hardly dare to write of anything now from fear you
should find it flippant or unnecessary; I wish that anger had never come. It is babyish & unkind to write like this:
"Yes I am not jealous, having so litle an opinion of myself that possiblities-I will not say what-have occured to me. &c"
The little parenthesis looks as if you thought I might be
decieved in what were the possibilities that occured to you.
Be sure there is nothing I have not put before my mind, amongthings you call "posibilities". Call them not so again.
Like me you take such an opportunity to question my recollections of past times , with such phrases, as
"Do you remember where first we" Do not so.
Remember it was among the oak trees of Richmond that
I first felt you arms in a kind , voluptuous praise around my neck; but I could feel quite as violent an ecstasy even now.
Your tiredness can't have been healthy, or you would not have repeated the unnescessary Shelley (& Watson) about joy becoming pain; to a healthy person it can not , it seldom does even to me.
So were you merely writing morbid words, not thinking morbid thoughts.
(Even the best of us have as it were phrases of passing fashion.)
Surely, so long as you were fresh all the loveliness of the country did not bring one melancholy thought? I hope not.
You say also you "cannot pretend to love anyone but" me.
Surely I did not say I loved my cousin? How could I!
I am a small thing, but I have to be tickled before I laugh.
Say not so again.-you say that only to me you can unburden your soul. Is it so? Is it not this; that with me (as I with you)
you feel your troubles are gone away suddenly;
which is what makes our actual words very often so light.
Dearest Helen, do not say you are proud-do not say so. It sounds like a speech in a novel.
"Yet I am a woman!" they say; then the novelist goes on to say "through Leonora's soul" &c &c. Pride gives

dignity; that is undignified,-especially to me. Dearest me, you need never remind me of what you are.
What makes you so irritated by my coarse health? You would not have me stay unhealthy, morbid, if I could help; not that I ever can help, I fear; it is too late. You can never quite know how I love you until I am quite healthy, -
even as of now.
Is this enough?
Yesterday I was mowing fern on the mountain with a scythe- it is heavy exercise.
I stripped all but my trousers & a thin undershirt, & worked like that with very much joy, though with a breaking back towards the end.
This morning I am surprised to find I am not a bit stiff.
You know what a scythe is? & a sickle? a scythe of course has a long handle & a long blade like a scimitar;
& with it you bend only just a little, at the hips. The sun was hot, the air just as with you at Holmwood- a little dim.
The summer insects made a very loud shrill humming until
dark.
I haven't heard from Irene, nor had back the Speaker.
I wrote to Harry yesterday .
What dare you not ask for in love, little one? Come you are weary, not weary of this letter , I hope. Let us kiss, & I will draw your robes about your limbs, & praise & kiss your breast,- & is it beautiful still? Though a womans?- and hide my eyes from the sight of your towering hips & then take your thighs
& knees in my arms & kiss you until you are (illegible) again.
Dare you, little one? Let me take your head in my arm & kiss your forehead,
supporting your back against my knee, & closing your eyes with my kisses.
Goodbye! Dream of me & let me hear your moaning joy as we lie together in the fern under the tender stars. Goodbye.
In life I am your truest fondest friend Edward, now burning for your
breast & eyes; & you ever my own sweet little one Helen, my anemone maiden. Goodbye sweet heart. My own sweet little one, tell me that you
are well, Goodbye.