I am ill, but grieving more that you are ill, I make my stronger hand work long eno' to tell you. I thought perhaps you were in Heaven, and when you spoke again, it seemed quite sweet, and wonderful, and surprised me so - I wish that you were well.
I would that all I love, should be weak no more. The Violets are by my side, the Robin very near, and "Spring" - they say, Who is she - going by the door -
Indeed it is God's house - and these are gates of Heaven, and to and fro, the angels go, with their sweet postillions - I wish that I were great, like Mr. Michael Angelo, and could paint for you. You ask me what my flowers said - then they were disobedient - I gave them messages. They said what the lips in the West, say, when the sun goes down, and so says the Dawn.
Listen again, Master. I did not tell you that today had been the Sabbath Day.
Each Sabbath on the Sea, makes me count the Sabbaths, till we meet on shore - and (will the) whether the hills will look as blue as the sailors say. I cannot talk any more (stay any longer) tonight (now), for this pain denies me.
How strong when weak to recollect, and easy, quite, to love. Will you tell me, please to tell me, soon as you are well.
Last updated on February 25, 2008