Dear Heart, How Like You This Read Online Free Page A

for Hever, which was one of the many reasons why this arrangement for my upbringing came to be.
    As well as my sister, I also had a younger brother, Henry, the child my mother bore into the world as her own life was taken, whom I had left as but an infant when I departed from home. My infant brother died before I had a chance to grow to know or love him, thus being brought up with my cousin George seemed like gaining a brother in his stead. Perchance, even if Henry had lived, George would have taken his place in my heart. The friendship George and I shared comes only once in a fortunate lifetime.
    Aye. My cousins became easily and quickly the objects of my boyhood affections. They were also the people I enjoyed squabbling with. And, being children, we had many, many squabbles, but they all ended as they began—in friendship.
    Aye. ’Tis so easy to recall my cousins from those early years. Mary, all blonde and always pretty—even if often untidy. A gentle, sweet girl who seemed to never think deeply about anything too important, who grew into a woman easily persuaded and, just as easily, hurt and cast aside.
    George. My very good and dear friend George. Tousled hair, lanky, very freckled George, with the brightest blue eyes I have ever seen, always so completely loyal to those he loved. My cousin George was such an important part of my life.
    Then there was Anne. My sweet Anna. Anna, who sometimes seemed like a fairy child left in place of a mortal child. Forever darting here and there, as if a spell had been cast upon her; a spell that forbade her to stand still for more than a moment. Anne. Anna. My beloved. Reader, you must realise by now what I thought of her. For this present moment, I will speak no more of that.
    My cousins Anne and George possessed a special brother and sister relationship. Forever together in childhood as if God had meant them to be cast out into the world as twins and then decided otherwise. Both George and Anne were musical. In sooth, poetry and melody flowed through their veins as well as the usual red blood.
    Even when they were very small children, Anne would often write the lyrics to George’s musical compositions, while George would do the same for her creations. To me, it came as no surprise to learn that their last night upon this earth was spent composing sonnets for their much-loved lutes. From little children, I know they took to music, just like swans take to gliding upon lakes of crystal waters.
    Yea, George and Anne were more to one another than ordinary siblings, but it was evil and vicious of the King and his ministers to suggest that their relationship was ever incestuous. Rather, I say they were like two separate pieces of the same soul.
    We three—Anne, George, and I—always formed such a happy and contented trio. The three of us enjoyed playing with words and music, and would often have contests to see who could outdo the other two. Even as young children we were always completely honest with each other about our work. While we were growing up, Anne would constantly tell me, to my great delight, that she believed me to be a great poet.
    I can still see her to this day: pixie face, chin upon fist, sitting cross-legged on the thick, green grass looking at me frankly with those big, darkly hazel and delectable eyes. Eyes, seemingly, often taking over her entire face.
    “Tommy,” she would say in utter seriousness, “you do know how to write such lovely rhymes. Your poems are like keys opening doors inside of you. Some open the doors to your mind, while others are keys that open the secret doors to your heart.”
    I would laugh at her when she said things to me like this. Here she was, such a little girl, always trying to perceive things in a way that was beyond the reasoning of childhood, but which often appeared even beyond the reasoning of most adults.
    Like me, George and Anne loved poetry, and often tried their hand at composing verse. But music, as I have already