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I wanted in the beginning of life. But I will not die as you
did, because you could not be content. I will remember you,
and kiss your bead and your golden hair and think: She
could not live without being the best, and claiming the best as
her right; and maybe I shall say: Heaven be praised that she
chose death rather than living content.
Tonight I will go to Piazza San Pietro and listen to the wild
music of the fountain that never stops, and dream my dream.
For you, Jenny, are my dream, and I have never had any other.
Dream — oh, dream!
If your child had lived he would not have been what you
dreamt when you held him in your arms. He might have done
something good and great, or something bad and disgraceful,
but he would never have accomplished what you dreamt he
should do. No woman has given life to the child she dreamt
of when she bore it—no artist has created the work he saw
before him in the moment of his inspiration. And we live
summer after summer, but not one is like the one we have been
longing for when we stooped to gather the wet flowers in the
spring showers. And no love is what lovers dreamed when they
kissed for the first time.
If you and I had lived together we might have been happy
or not, we might have done good or ill to one another, but I
shall never know what our love would have been if you had been
mine. The only thing I know is that it would never have been
what I dreamt that night when I stood with you in the
moonlight while the fountain was playing.
And yet I would not have missed that dream, and I would
not miss the dream I am dreaming now.
Jenny, I would give my life if you could meet me on the
cliff and be as you were then, and kiss me and love me for one
day, one hour. Always I am thinking of what it might have
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