arrett；
I love your verses with all my heart； dear Miss Barrett； — and this is no off�hand plimentary letter that I shall write；—whatever else； no prompt matter�of�course recognition of your genius； and there a graceful and natural end of the thing。
羅伯特·勃朗寧致伊麗莎白·芭蕾特（2）
Since the day last week when I first read your poems； I quite laugh to remember how I have been turning and turning again in my mind what I should be able to tell you of their effect upon me； for in the first flush of delight I thought I would this once get out of my habit of purely passive enjoyment； when I do really enjoy； and thoroughly justify my admiration— perhaps even； as a loyal fellow�craftsman should； try and find fault and do you some little good to be proud of hereafter！—but nothing es of it all—so into me has it gone； and part of me has it bee； this great living poetry of yours； not a flower of which but took root and grew—Oh； how different that is from lying to be dried and pressed flat； and prized highly； and put in a book with a proper account at top and bottom； and shut up and put away… and the book called a ‘Flora'； besides！
After all； I need not give up the thought of doing that； too； in time； because even now； talking with whoever is worthy； I can give a reason for my faith in one and another excellence； the fresh strange music； the affluent language； the exquisite pathos and true new brave thought； but in this addressing myself to you—your ownself； and for the first time； my feeling rises altogether。
I