Sleep is supposed to be,
By souls of sanity,
The shutting of the eye.
Sleep is the station grand
Down which on either hand
The hosts of witness stand !
Morn is supposed to be,
By people of degree,
The breaking of the day.
Morning has not occurred !
That shall aurora be
East of eternity ;
One with the banner gay,
One in the red array, —
That is the break of day.
Il Sonno si suppone sia,
Per anime di senno,
Il chiudersi dell’occhio.
Il Sonno è la stazione grande
Lungo cui da ambo i lati
Le schiere di testimoni stanno !
Il mattino si suppone sia,
Per gente di rango,
Lo spuntare del giorno.
Il mattino non è avvenuto !
Quella sarà aurora
A oriente dell’eternità ;
Uno col vessillo gaio,
Uno in rossa schiera, —
Quello è lo spuntare del giorno.
Sexton! My Master’s sleeping here.
Pray lead me to his bed!
I came to build the Bird’s nest,
And sow the Early seed —
That when the snow creeps slowly
From off his chamber door —
Daisies point the way there —
And the Troubadour.
Sagrestano! Il mio Padrone dorme qui.
Ti prego, guidami al suo letto!
Venni a costruire il nido dell’Uccello,
E a seminare il seme Precoce —
Perché quando la neve striscia lenta
Via dalla porta della sua stanza —
Le Margherite indichino la via —
E il Trovatore.
On such a night, or such a night,
Would anybody care
If such a little figure
Slipped quiet from its chair —
So quiet — Oh how quiet,
That nobody might know
But that the little figure
Rocked softer — to and fro —
On such a dawn, or such a dawn —
Would anybody sigh
That such a little figure
Too sound asleep did lie
For Chanticleer to wake it —
Or stirring house below —
Or giddy bird in orchard —
Or early task to do?
There was a little figure plump
For every little knoll —
Busy needles, and spools of thread —
And trudging feet from school —
Playmates, and holidays, and nuts —
And visions vast and small —
Strange that the feet so precious charged
Should reach so small a goal!
In una notte così, o una notte così,
A qualcuno importerebbe
Se una così piccola figura
Scivolasse quieta dalla sua sedia —
Così quieta — Oh come quieta,
Che nessuno saprebbe
Se non che la piccola figura
Dondolava più piano — avanti e indietro —
In un’alba così, o un’alba così —
Sospirerebbe qualcuno
Che una così piccola figura
Giacesse in sonno troppo profondo
Perché Chanticleer la destasse —
O la casa in fermento di sotto —
O l’uccello frivolo nel frutteto —
O un compito mattutino da fare?
C’era una piccola figura paffuta
Per ogni piccolo poggio —
Aghi operosi, e rocchetti di filo —
E piedi arrancanti dalla scuola —
Compagni di gioco, e vacanze, e noci —
E visioni vaste e piccole —
Strano che piedi di sì prezioso carico
Dovessero giungere a meta così piccola!
On this long storm the rainbow rose,
On this late morn the sun ;
The clouds, like listless elephants,
Horizons straggled down.
The birds rose smiling in their nests,
The gales indeed were done ;
Alas ! how heedless were the eyes
On whom the summer shone !
The quiet nonchalance of death
No daybreak can bestir ;
The slow archangel’s syllables
Must awaken her.
Su questa lunga tempesta l’arcobaleno sorse,
In questo tardo mattino il sole ;
Le nubi, come elefanti svogliati,
Si trascinarono giù per gli orizzonti.
Gli uccelli sorsero sorridenti nei nidi,
Le burrasche erano davvero finite ;
Ahimè ! come ignari erano gli occhi
Su cui l’estate splendeva !
La quieta noncuranza della morte
Nessun’alba può ridestare ;
Le sillabe del lento arcangelo
Dovranno svegliarla.
The nearest Dream recedes — unrealized —
The Heaven we chase,
Like the June Bee — before the School Boy,
Invites the Race —
Stoops — to an easy Clover —
Dips — evades — teases — deploys —
Then — to the Royal Clouds
Lifts his light Pinnace —
Heedless of the Boy —
Staring — bewildered — at the mocking sky —
Homesick for steadfast Honey —
Ah, the Bee flies not
That brews that rare variety!
Il Sogno più vicino recede — irrealizzato —
Il Cielo che inseguiamo,
Come l’Ape di Giugno — davanti allo Scolaro,
Invita alla Corsa —
Si china — su un facile Trifoglio —
S’immerge — elude — stuzzica — si dispiega —
Poi — verso le Nubi Regali
Solleva la sua lieve Pinaccia —
Incurante del Fanciullo —
Che fissa — smarrito — il cielo beffardo —
Nostalgico di un Miele costante —
Ah, non vola l’Ape
Che distilla quella rara varietà!
I went to thank her,
But she slept ;
Her bed a funnelled stone,
With nosegays at the head and foot,
That travellers had thrown,
Who went to thank her ;
But she slept.
‘T was short to cross the sea
To look upon her like, alive,
But turning back ‘t was slow.
Andai a ringraziarla,
Ma lei dormiva ;
Il suo letto una pietra scavata,
Con mazzolini al capo e ai piedi,
Che i viandanti avevano gettato,
Venuti a ringraziarla ;
Ma lei dormiva.
Fu breve attraversare il mare
Per guardare una sua pari, viva,
Ma il ritorno fu lento.
She lay as if at play
Her life had leaped away —
Intending to return —
But not so soon —
Her merry Arms, half dropt —
As if for lull of sport —
An instant had forgot —
The Trick to start —
Her dancing Eyes — ajar —
As if their Owner were
Still sparkling through
For fun — at you —
Her Morning at the door —
Devising, I am sure —
To force her sleep —
So light — so deep —
Giaceva come per gioco
La sua vita era balzata via —
Con l’intento di tornare —
Ma non così presto —
Le sue allegre Braccia, semiabbandonate —
Come per una tregua del gioco —
Un istante avevano scordato —
Il Trucco per ripartire —
I suoi Occhi danzanti — socchiusi —
Come se la loro Padrona
Ancora scintillasse attraverso
Per burla — verso te —
Il suo Mattino alla porta —
Tramando, ne son certa —
Di forzare il suo sonno —
Così lieve — così fondo —
Dreams — are well — but Waking’s better,
If One wake at morn —
If One wake at Midnight — better —
Dreaming — of the Dawn —
Sweeter — the Surmising Robins —
Never gladdened Tree —
Than a Solid Dawn — confronting —
Leading to no Day —
I Sogni — van bene — ma Vegliare è meglio,
Se Uno si sveglia al mattino —
Se Uno si sveglia a Mezzanotte — meglio —
Sognando — l’Alba —
Più dolci — i Pettirossi del Presagio —
Che mai rallegrarono Albero —
Di una Solida Alba — di fronte —
Che non conduce ad alcun Giorno —
Her sweet Weight on my Heart a Night
Had scarcely deigned to lie —
When, stirring, for Belief’s delight,
My Bride had slipped away —
If ‘twas a Dream — made solid — just
The Heaven to confirm —
Or if Myself were dreamed of Her —
The power to presume —
With Him remain — who unto Me —
Gave — even as to All —
A Fiction superseding Faith —
By so much — as ‘twas real —
Il suo dolce Peso sul mio Cuore una Notte
S’era appena degnato di posarsi —
Quando, muovendosi, per delizia del Credere,
La mia Sposa era scivolata via —
Se fu un Sogno — fatto solido — solo
A conferma del Cielo —
O se Io stessa fossi sognata da Lei —
Il potere di presumerlo —
Resti a Lui — che a Me —
Diede — come a Tutti —
Una Finzione che soppianta la Fede —
Di tanto — quanto era reale —
We dream — it is good we are dreaming —
It would hurt us — were we awake —
But since it is playing — kill us,
And we are playing — shriek —
What harm? Men die — externally —
It is a truth — of Blood —
But we — are dying in Drama —
And Drama — is never dead —
Cautious — We jar each other —
And either — open the eyes —
Lest the Phantasm — prove the Mistake —
And the livid Surprise
Cool us to Shafts of Granite —
With just an Age — and Name —
And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian —
It’s prudenter — to dream —
Sogniamo — è bene che stiamo sognando —
Ci farebbe male — fossimo svegli —
Ma poiché è recita — uccidici,
E noi recitiamo — un urlo —
Che male c’è? Gli Uomini muoiono — esternamente —
È una verità — di Sangue —
Ma noi — moriamo nel Dramma —
E il Dramma — non è mai morto —
Cauti — Ci scuotiamo l’un l’altro —
E l’uno o l’altra — apre gli occhi —
Che il Fantasma — non provi l’Errore —
E la livida Sorpresa
Ci geli in Colonne di Granito —
Con solo un’Età — e un Nome —
E forse una frase in Egizio —
È più prudente — sognare —
I had no Cause to be awake —
My Best — was gone to sleep —
And Morn a new politeness took —
And failed to wake them up —
But called the others — clear —
And passed their Curtains by —
Sweet Morning — when I oversleep —
Knock — Recollect — to Me —
I looked at Sunrise — Once —
And then I looked at Them —
And wishfulness in me arose —
For Circumstance the same —
‘Twas such an Ample Peace —
It could not hold a Sigh —
‘Twas Sabbath — with The [[Bells|the Bells]] divorced —
‘Twas Sunset — all the Day —
So choosing but a Gown —
And taking but a Prayer —
The only Raiment I should need —
I struggled — and was There —
Non avevo Causa d’esser desta —
Il mio Meglio — era andato a dormire —
E il Mattino prese una nuova cortesia —
E mancò di svegliarli —
Ma chiamò gli altri — chiaro —
E oltrepassò le loro Cortine —
Dolce Mattino — quando dormo troppo —
Bussa — Rammenta — a Me —
Guardai l’Aurora — una Volta —
E poi guardai Loro —
E in me sorse un desiderio —
Della stessa Circostanza —
Era una Pace così Ampia —
Non poteva contenere un Sospiro —
Era Sabato — divorziato da The [[Bells|le Campane]] —
Era Tramonto — tutto il Giorno —
Così scegliendo solo una Veste —
E prendendo solo una Preghiera —
L’unico Abito che mi occorresse —
Lottai — ed ero Là —
A long — long Sleep — A famous — Sleep —
That makes no show for Morn —
By Stretch of Limb — or stir of Lid —
An independent One —
Was ever idleness like This?
Upon a Bank of Stone
To bask the Centuries away —
Nor once look up — for Noon?
Un lungo — lungo Sonno — Un famoso — Sonno —
Che non fa mostra di Mattino —
Con Stendersi di Membra — o battito di Palpebra —
Uno indipendente —
Fu mai ozio come Questo?
Sopra un Argine di Pietra
Crogiolarsi via i Secoli —
Senza mai alzare gli occhi — per il Mezzogiorno?
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago —
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below —
Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde —
Her Cheek — a Beryl hewn —
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known —
Her Lips of Amber never part —
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will —
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star —
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door —
Her Bonnet is the Firmament —
The Universe — Her Shoe —
The Stars — the Trinkets at Her Belt —
Her Dimities — of Blue —
La Luna era solo un Mento d’Oro
Una Notte o due fa —
E ora volge il Suo Viso perfetto
Sul Mondo qui sotto —
La Sua Fronte è del più Ampio Biondo —
La Sua Guancia — un Berillo scolpito —
Il Suo Occhio alla Estiva Rugiada
Il più simile ch’io conosca —
Le Sue Labbra d’Ambra mai si schiudono —
Ma quale dev’essere il sorriso
Che all’Amica Sua potrebbe concedere
Fosse tale il Suo Argenteo Volere —
E che privilegio essere
Anche solo la Stella più remota —
Ché di Certo Ella prende la Sua Via
Accanto alla Porta del Tuo Palazzo —
La Sua Cuffia è il Firmamento —
L’Universo — la Sua Scarpa —
Le Stelle — i Ciondoli alla Sua Cintura —
Le Sue Mussole — di Blu —
No Notice gave She, but a Change —
No Message, but a Sigh —
For Whom, the Time did not suffice
That She should specify.
She was not warm, though Summer shone
Nor scrupulous of cold
Though Rime by Rime, the steady Frost
Upon Her Bosom piled —
Of shrinking ways — she did not fright
Though all the Village looked —
But held Her gravity aloft —
And met the gaze — direct —
And when adjusted like a Seed
In careful fitted Ground
Unto the Everlasting Spring
And hindered but a Mound
Her Warm return, if so she chose —
And We — imploring drew —
Removed our invitation by
As Some She never knew —
Nessun Avviso diede Lei, se non un Mutamento —
Nessun Messaggio, se non un Sospiro —
Per Chi, il Tempo non bastò
Perché Lei lo specificasse.
Non era calda, benché l’Estate splendesse
Né scrupolosa del freddo
Benché Brina su Brina, il costante Gelo
Sul Suo Seno si ammucchiasse —
Di modi schivi — non si spaventò
Benché tutto il Villaggio guardasse —
Ma tenne alta la Sua gravità —
E incontrò lo sguardo — diretta —
E quando adagiata come un Seme
In Terra con cura predisposta
Verso l’Eterna Primavera
E d’ostacolo solo un Tumulo
Al Suo Caldo ritorno, se così avesse voluto —
E Noi — imploranti ci accostammo —
Respinse il nostro invito
Come di Alcuni che mai conobbe —
Ample make this Bed —
Make this Bed with Awe —
In it wait till Judgment break
Excellent and Fair.
Be its Mattress straight —
Be its Pillow round —
Let no Sunrise’ yellow noise
Interrupt this Ground —
Ampio fate questo Letto —
Fate questo Letto con Timore —
In esso attendete che il Giudizio irrompa
Eccellente e Giusto.
Sia dritto il suo Materasso —
Sia tondo il suo Guanciale —
Che nessun giallo strepito d’Aurora
Interrompa questo Suolo —
I make His Crescent fill or lack —
His Nature is at Full
Or Quarter — as I signify —
His Tides — do I control —
He holds superior in the Sky
Or gropes, at my Command
Behind inferior Clouds — or round
A Mist’s slow Colonnade —
But since We hold a Mutual Disc —
And front a Mutual Day —
Which is the Despot, neither knows —
Nor Whose — the Tyranny —
Io faccio il Suo Crescente colmarsi o mancare —
La Sua Natura è al Pieno
O al Quarto — come Io dispongo —
Le Sue Maree — Io le governo —
Egli sta sovrano nel Cielo
O brancola, al mio Comando
Dietro Nubi inferiori — o attorno
Al lento Colonnato d’una Bruma —
Ma poiché teniamo un Disco Mutuo —
E fronteggiamo un Mutuo Giorno —
Chi sia il Despota, nessuno dei due sa —
Né di Chi — la Tirannia —
The spry Arms of the Wind
If I could crawl between
I have an errand imminent
To an adjoining Zone —
I should not care to stop
My Process is not long
The Wind could wait without the Gate
Or stroll the Town among.
To ascertain the House
And is the soul at Home
And hold the Wick of mine to it
To light, and then return —
Le agili Braccia del Vento
Se potessi infilarmici in mezzo
Ho una commissione imminente
In una Zona attigua —
Non mi curerei di fermarmi
Il mio Procedimento non è lungo
Il Vento potrebbe attendere fuori dal Cancello
O andarsene a spasso per la Città.
Per accertare la Casa
E se l’anima è a Casa
E accostarvi il mio Stoppino
Per accenderlo, e poi tornare —
CRESCENT?
Which is the best — the Moon or the Crescent?
Neither — said the Moon —
That is best which is not — Achieve it —
You efface the Sheen.
Not of detention is Fruition —
Shudder to attain.
Transport’s decomposition follows —
He is Prism born.
FALCE?
Qual è la migliore — la Luna o la Falce?
Nessuna — disse la Luna —
È migliore ciò che non è — Conseguitelo —
E cancellate il Fulgore.
Non di detenzione è la Fruizione —
Rabbrividite a raggiungere.
Segue la decomposizione del Trasporto —
Egli è nato Prisma.
The Moon upon her fluent Route
Defiant of a Road —
The Star’s Etruscan Argument
Substantiate a God —
If Aims impel these Astral Ones
The ones allowed to know
Know that which makes them as forgot
As Dawn forgets them — now —
La Luna sul suo fluente Percorso
Sprezzante di una Strada —
L’Etrusco Argomento della Stella
Sostanzia un Dio —
Se Scopi spingono questi Esseri Astrali
Quelli cui è concesso sapere
Sanno ciò che li rende dimenticati
Come l’Alba li dimentica — ora —
On that specific Pillow
Our projects flit away —
The Night’s tremendous Morrow
And whether sleep will stay
Or usher us — a stranger —
To situations new
The effort to comprise it
Is all the soul can do.
Su quello specifico Cuscino
I nostri progetti volano via —
Il tremendo Domani della Notte
E se il sonno resterà
O ci scorterà — stranieri —
A situazioni nuove
Lo sforzo di abbracciarlo
È tutto ciò che l’anima può.
We are just through dinner, Austin, I want to write so much that I omit digestion, and a dyspepsia will probably be the result… . I received your letter yesterday… . You say we mustn’t trouble to send you any fruit, also your clothes must give us no uneasiness. I don’t ever want to have you say any more such things. They make me feel like crying. If you’d only teased us for it, and declared that you would have it, I shouldn’t have cared so much that we could find no way to send you any, but you resign so cheerfully your birthright of purple grapes, and do not so much as murmur at the departing peaches, that I hardly can taste the one or drink the juice of the other. They are so beautiful, Austin,—we have such an abundance “while you perish with hunger.”
I do hope some one will make up a mind to go before our peaches are quite gone. The world is full of people travelling everywhere, until it occurs to you that you will send an errand, and then by “hook or crook” you can’t find any traveller who, for money or love, can be induced to go and carry the opprobrious package. It’s a very selfish age, that is all I can say about it. Mr. Storekeeper S—— has been “almost persuaded” to go, but I believe he has put it off “till a more convenient season,” so to show my disapprobation I sha’n’t buy any more gloves at Mr. S——‘s store! Don’t you think it will seem very cutting to see me pass by his goods and purchase at Mr. K——‘s? I don’t think I shall retract should he regret his course and decide to go to-morrow, because it is the principle of disappointing people which I disapprove! …
The peaches are very large—one side a rosy cheek, and the other a golden, and that peculiar coat of velvet and of down which makes a peach so beautiful. The grapes, too, are fine, juicy, and such a purple—-I fancy the robes of kings are not a tint more royal. The vine looks like a kingdom, with ripe round grapes for kings, and hungry mouths for subjects—the first instance on record of subjects devouring kings! You shall have some grapes, dear Austin, if I have to come on foot in order to bring them to you.
The apples are very fine—it isn’t quite time to pick them—the cider is almost done—we shall have some I guess by Saturday, at any rate Sunday noon. The vegetables are not gathered, but will be before very long. The horse is doing nicely; he travels “like a bird” to use a favorite phrase of your delighted mother’s. You ask about the leaves—shall I say they are falling? They had begun to fall before Vinnie and I came home, and we walked up the steps through little brown ones rustling… .
Vinnie tells me she has detailed the news—she reserved the deaths for me, thinking I might fall short of my usual letter somewhere. In accordance with her wishes I acquaint you with the decease of your aged friend Deacon——. He had no disease that, we know of, but gradually went out… . Monday evening we were all startled by a violent church-bell ringing, and thinking of nothing but fire, rushed out in the street to see. The sky was a beautiful red, bordering on a crimson, and rays of a gold pink color were constantly shooting off from a kind of sun in the centre. People were alarmed at this beautiful phenomenon, supposing that fires somewhere were coloring the sky. The exhibition lasted for nearly fifteen minutes, and the streets were full of people wondering and admiring. Father happened to see it among the very first, and rang the bell himself to call attention to it. You will have a full account from the pen of Mr. Trumbull, who, I have not a doubt, was seen with a long lead pencil a-noting down the sky at the time of its highest glory… . You will be here now so soon—we are impatient for it—we want to see you, Austin, how much I cannot say here.
… I know you will live for our sake, dear, you would not be willing to for your own. That is the duty which saves. While we are trying for others, power of life comes back, very faint at first, like the new bird, but by and by it has wings.
How sweetly you have comforted me—the toil to comfort you, I hoped never would come. A sorrow on your sunny face is too dark a miracle—but how sweet that he rose in the morning—accompanied by dawn. How lovely that he spoke with you, that memorial time! How gentle that he left the pang he had not time to feel! Bequest of darkness, yet of light, since unborne by him. “Where thou goest, we will go”—how mutual, how intimate! No solitude receives him, but neighborhood and friend.
Relieved forever of the loss of those that must have fled, but for his sweet haste. Knowing he could not spare them, he hurried like a boy from that unhappened sorrow. Death has mislaid his sting—the grave forgot his victory. Because the flake fell not on him, we will accept the drift, and wade where he is lain.
Do you remember the clover leaf? The little hand that plucked it will keep tight hold of mine.
Please give her love to Annie, and Kate, who also gave a father.
Love for Mary.
DEAR FRIEND,—… Austin is disappointed—he expected to see you to-day. He is sure you won’t go to sea without first speaking to him. I presume if Emily and Vinnie knew of his writing, they would entreat him to ask you not.
Austin is chilled by Frazer’s murder.6 He says his brain keeps saying over “Frazer is killed”—“Frazer is killed,” just as father told it to him. Two or three words of lead, that dropped so deep they keep weighing. Tell Austin how to get over them!
He is very sorry you are not better. He cares for you when at the office, and afterwards, too, at home; and sometimes wakes at night, with a worry for you he didn’t finish quite by day. He would not like it that I betrayed him, so you’ll never tell… .
Mary sent beautiful flowers. Did she tell you?
… Send a sundown for L——, please, and a crocus for F———. Shadow had no stem, so they could not pick him.
…——fed greedily upon Harper’s Magazines while here. Suppose he is restricted to Martin Luther’s works at home. It is a criminal thing to be a boy in a godly village, but maybe he will be forgiven.
… The seeing pain one can’t relieve makes a demon of one. If angels have the heart beneath their silver jackets, I think such things could make them weep, but Heaven is so cold! It will never look kind to me that God, who causes all, denies such little wishes. It could not hurt His glory, unless it were a lonesome kind. I ‘most conclude it is.
… Thank you for the daisy. With nature in my ruche I shall not miss the spring. What would become of us, dear, but for love to reprieve our blunders?
… I’m afraid that home is ‘most done, but do not say I fear so. Perhaps God will be better. They’re happy, you know. That makes it doubtful. Heaven hunts round for those that find itself below, and then it snatches.
… Think Emily lost her wits—but she found ‘em, likely. Don’t part with wits long in this neighborhood.
… Your letters are all real, just the tangled road children walked before you, some of them to the end, and others but a little way, even as far as the fork in the road. That Mrs. Browning fainted, we need not read Aurora Leigh to know, when she lived with her English aunt; and George Sand “must make no noise in her grandmother’s bedroom.” Poor children! Women, now, queens, now! And one in the Eden of God. I guess they both forget that now, so who knows but we, little stars from the same night, stop twinkling at last? Take heart, little sister, twilight is but the short bridge, and the moon stands at the end. If we can only get to her! Yet, if she sees us fainting, she will put out her yellow hands… .
… Your letter didn’t surprise me, L——; I brushed away the sleet from eyes familiar with it—looked again to be sure I read it right—and then took up my work hemming strings for mother’s gown. I think I hemmed them faster for knowing you weren’t coming, my fingers had nothing else to do… . Odd, that I, who say “no” so much, cannot bear it from others. Odd, that I, who run from so many, cannot brook that one turn from me. Come when you will, L——, the hearts are never shut here. I don’t remember “May.” Is that the one that stands next April? And is that the month for the river-pink?
Mrs. Adams had news of the death of her boy to-day, from a wound at Annapolis. Telegram signed by Frazer Stearns. You remember him. Another one died in October —from fever caught in the camp. Mrs. Adams herself has not risen from bed since then. “Happy new year” step softly over such doors as these! “Dead! Both her boys! One of them shot by the sea in the East, and one of them shot in the West by the sea.”… Christ be merciful! Frazer Stearns is just leaving Annapolis. His father has gone to see him to-day. I hope that ruddy face won’t be brought home frozen. Poor little widow’s boy, riding to-night in the mad wind, back to the village burying-ground where he never dreamed of sleeping! Ah! the dreamless sleep!
Did you get the letter I sent a week from Monday? You did not say, and it makes me anxious, and I sent a scrap for Saturday last, that too? L——, I wanted you very much, and I put you by with sharper tears than I give to many. Won’t you tell me about the chills—what the doctor says? I must not lose you, sweet. Tell me if I could send a tuft to keep the cousin warm, a blanket of a thistle, say, or something!
Much love and Christmas, and sweet year, for you and F——and papa.
Thank you, dears, for the sympathy. I hardly dare to know that I have lost another friend, but anguish finds it out.
Each that we lose takes part of us; A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night, Is summoned by the tides.
… I work to drive the awe away, yet awe impels the work.
I almost picked the crocuses, you told them so sincerely. Spring’s first conviction is a wealth beyond its whole experience.
The sweetest way I think of you is when the day is done, and L——sets the “sunset tree” for the little sisters. Dear F——has had many stormy mornings; … I hope they have not chilled her feet, nor dampened her heart. I am glad the little visit rested you. Rest and water are most we want.
I know each moment of Miss W——is a gleam of boundlessness. “Miles and miles away,” said Browning, “there’s a girl”; but “the colored end of evening smiles” on but few so rare.
Thank you once more for being sorry. Till the first friend dies, we think ecstasy impersonal, but then discover that he was the cup from which we drank it, itself as yet unknown. Sweetest love for each, and a kiss besides for Miss W——‘s cheek, should you again meet her.
Emily Dickinson’s first letter to the son of her old friend, Mr. Bowles, was written four years after his father’s death, and contained a spray of pressed jasmine.