I shall be doing, I think, somehow, what she will be doing;--
I shall be thine, O my child, some way, though I know not in what way.
Let me submit to forget her; I must; I already forget her.


V.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

Utterly vain is, alas, this attempt at the Absolute,--wholly!
I, who believed not in her, because I would fain believe nothing,
Have to believe as I may, with a wilful, unmeaning acceptance.
I, who refused to enfasten the roots of my floating existence
In the rich earth, cling now to the hard, naked rock that is left me.--
Ah! she was worthy, Eustace,--and that, indeed, is my comfort,--
Worthy a nobler heart than a fool such as I could have given.


VI.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

Yes, it relieves me to write, though I do not send; and the chance
that
Takes may destroy my fragments. But as men pray, without asking
Whether One really exist to hear or do anything for them,--
Simply impelled by the need of the moment to turn to a Being
In a conception of whom there is freedom from all limitation,--
So in your image I turn to an _ens rationis_ of friendship.
Even to write in your name I know not to whom nor in what wise.


VII.--CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.