January 1874

Thank you, dear friend, for my "New Year;" but did you not con- fer it? Had your scholar permission to fashion your's, it were perhaps too fair. I always ran Home to Awe when a child, if anything befell me.

He was an awful Mother, but I liked him better than none. There remained this shelter after you left me the other Day.

Of your flitting Coming it is fair to think.

Like the Bee's Coupe-vanishing in Music.

Would you with the Bee return, what a Firm of Noon!

Death obtains the Rose, but the News of Dying goes no further than the Breeze. The Ear is the last Face.

We hear after we see.

Which to tell you first is still my Dismay.

Meeting a Bird this Morning, I begun to flee. He saw it and sung.

Presuming on that lone result
His infinite Disdain
But vanquished him with my Defeat-
'Twas Victory was slain.

Thank you for telling me.

"Field Lilies" are Cleopatra's "Posies."

I was re-reading "Oldport."

Largest last, like Nature.

Was it you that came?

A Wind that woke a lone Delight
Like Separation's Swell-
Restored in Arctic confidence
To the Invisible.