Lines from desolate souls.

This is not a story; just two poems I think our favourite couple might have written after the painful heartache of 3.3 with a little contextualisation.

Sir Anthony Strallan sat alone in his library watching the rain pour down outside; it seemed to echo the desolation and regret in his heart for what he had tried to convince himself was the right thing to do. He did not expect to ever see Lady Edith again; if he tried Lord Grantham would probably have him lynched. He thought it was ironic that they only seemed to care when it meant they could stand between her and what she wanted.

He picked up a pen and began to write; his feelings came across far easier than he had expected. He had not written poetry since the war and he smiled at how they used to talk about the poets they loved.

Too late

Thoughts of you fill my mind

Memories of your eyes of brown

Your burnished copper hair; almost the pure gold that you truly are.

Your smile a light

In the sterile darkness of my heart.

Your words caressed my soul

Your laughter echoes in my mind; sweet as clear water in a mountain spring.

I need you but the words; most unworthy for you to hear

Remain unsaid.

As I try to pick my spirits up from the floor

Where they are crushed to shards along with your dreams

God may forgive me but I cannot forgive myself.

Your beauty arouses me

You are a gift; your virtues pearls before swine

They don't understand what you wanted; if they even cared

What galls me most; like a knife in my breast

I let you slip through my good hand; the one that longs to hold yours

My heart is a heat scorched wasteland

With no hope to water to revive my soul and quench

My desire for your company

I ache my darling; every part of me that can feel aches

I miss you my darling

But it's too late now; far too late.

OO

Edith did not come out of her room for the rest of that day. For all her family cared she could have put a gun to her head; if she had had one. She sighed deeply; knowing that, just like most of her life, no one would respond to her heart-broken tears because they were glad the wedding had not gone ahead. But they had never thought to ask her how she felt about it, how she felt about the gorgeous lovely man she had watched walk out of her life. Anthony was the only person who had cared enough to ask her how she felt and noticed what she wore. She had come alive when she was with him and only that morning she had been dreaming about what their life together would be like but now it was just that, just a dream and always would be.

Edith knew that she forgave him; thought she even understood why he had acted in that way and she felt her anguish even as she saw her dreams smashed to pieces on the stone floor of Downton church.

She took up her pen and began to write, astounded my how freely her emotions flowed from her.

My tears flood the pillow

No one hears, no one cares

I am bereft and my heart has died.

Will I ever again see the sun?

In these desolate skies?

I should have spoken

My words failed me when I needed them the most.

Despair at never touching you

Or feeling your lips on mine

Torture my soul

I would have shared your bed my love

Your pain would have been mine

All hopes of love are crushed in my breast

And beneath my feet so sharp they cut to bleed.

You gave me freedom to be myself.

Thanks to those whose words did not fail

All hope of loving you is gone.

Forgiveness causes my heart to ache

For I can never hold you to let you know

I understand

I must suffer now, as I have always done

You are pure gold, my darling

I forgive you my love

But I know this is goodbye.

A/N I am aware that people probably did not write poetry in free verse in the 1920s but I hate normal poetic constraints so please indulge me and review. I don't know if I have captured their pain but please review and let me know.