The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, 1845-1846

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You were right to bid me never again wish my poor flowers were 'diamonds' - you could not, I think, speak so to my heart of any diamonds. God knows my life is for you to take just as you take - these last please you, serve you best when plucked - and 'my life's rose'.. if I dared profane that expression I would say, you have but to 'stoop' for it. Foolish, as all words are. You dwell on that notion of your being peculiarly isolated, - of any kindness to you, in your present state, seeming doubled and quadrupled - what do I, what could anyone infer from that but, most obviously, that it was a very fortunate thing for such kindness, and that the presumable bestower of it got all his distinction from the fact that no better.. however, I hate this and cannot go on. Dearest, believe that under ordinary circumstances, with ordinary people, all operates differently - the imaginary kindness-bestower with his ideal methods of showing and proving his love, - there would be the rival to fear!