Letter from Edward Thomas to his wife, Helen Thomas. Archival reference: 424/1/1/1/1/80

19 Cambria Place
New Swindon, Wilts
14.1.99
My dearest friend,
You scatter flowers on my path, that my feet may tread pleasantly-harsh feet that only destroy the flowers, I am afraid. I did not expect your letters; yet they seemed to fill a place which would have made me sorrowful had it been void. Poor little one! That is what I say to myself as I have so often said to you; for you are not so happy & fortunate as you deserve-my love is now fully tenderness & almost of pity-
Your

Goethe, who whiled away days- & nights-with the beauties of his time, of Shelley perhaps; but not of Turner among the costermonger whores of Wapping etc. My selfish nature makes such a life still more consequential; I can really see the whole course of such a life without a sigh, tho I know everything makes it impossible. The white limbs, the fierce laughing (not sighing) caresses of false women, could only make me love you more, you who were meant to taste love as the flowers do, or take the angels. And yet do
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Sweetness is not of that brilliant kind that will captivate in an odd moment, in a crowd, or at your own wish : it would spend itself continually & freely for a whole lifetime, but it needs life (life with me, & not stolen moments) for its display ; hence I might even have seemed at times to pass it over, to prefer other things to it; at least I seemed (to myself) to do so. Your long-suffering, your meekness,, your generosity, your perfect love-little one, no other woman has it, could have it! These things are so dear & so rare that I loathe to hide them by some of the
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gross contacts of life. I sometimes, consequently, say I will adore the limbs of other women; I will taste & then forget their voluptuousness; -& so perhaps I should, if I had beauty & grace & fortune. Can this anger you? Perhaps it justly will . And yet I am longing to see how possible it is for a man to be a libertine & yet- what? Shall I say "& yet good"? No!- still not wholly contemptible & wrong. I mean the libertinism of
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blood and thunder plots.
I am glad you liked the Religio Medici. That amiable old man seems more & more the model of what I most admire & seek. He is religious, freethinking, & superstitious all at once. He helps me to understand Leonardo.
Tell Irene I hope to write to her soon ; and only a fear that my boots are too big and heavy that will keep me from writing-not Maeterlinckish!
Goodbye sweet heart. My own sweet little one, may all be well with you.
Ever yours Edwy.
What was in Janets letter?

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not think I forget the amimalism that is in you, the delight you could take in a bridal(sic) of silken darkness under lamp of eternal light , & on roses from the magic east :
I do not forget, I do not forget the-almost wild joy in your eyes in my caresses, the absence of remorse, the anticipation, the unashamed desires, that you know.
Let this not wake any fears. You seem happy now, & so am I.
Still I am in a queer place now, without even the
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nescessities of life, & with none of the comforts; my poor godly grandmother fast going in dotage undoubtably.
I have already taken one walk- far enough to get thoroughly dirty. But it was a particularly fine afternoon; without wind; brilliant; & (illegible) with long silken shadows; the sunset; quiet & golden; the wide fields alone for me.
I was in a flutter of contentment just as when I am going to see friends long absent- I shall feel the same when I wait on Friday for the arrival, all the enigmatical acquaintances

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at Lincoln. A butterfly has been seen here this week. There are primroses and nests to be found. -
You remember Davies said in his last letter he was constantly inventing against his will plots in the manner of Guy Boothby.
Well! "ideas" are constantly occuring to me as subjects for rhetorical treatment ,-as in those two papers you saw of mine, beginning "who shall measure the sorrow of him that hath" etc.
You did not say exactly what you thought of it. Do so. -still, I think there may possibly be some excuse for my rhetoric, tho there is none for mere