To Emily Dickinson
I [keep] my promise so [promptly] that I am w[riting] you before bre[akfast, but] it is simply a [post]script to my [call the other] day; which re[ally I] found as mu[ch too] short as you [may] possibly have [felt it.]
I am ver[y sorry if] I have seemed [neglectful] and I hope [to hear from] you again. [I feel] as if I ha[d been] very imperti[nent that] day [in] speaking to you [as] I did, accusing you of living away from the sunlight and [telling] you that you [looke]d ill, which is a [mor]tal price of ill[ness] at all times, but re[al]ly you look[ed] so [wh]ite and [mo]th-like[!] Your [hand] felt [l]ike such a wisp in mine that you frigh[tened] me. I felt [li]ke a [gr]eat ox [tal]king to a wh[ite] moth, and beg[ging] it to come and [eat] grass with me [to] see if it could not turn itself into beef! How stupid.
This morning I have read over again the last verses you sent me: I find them more clear than I thought they were. Part of the dimness must have been in me. Yet I have others which I like better. I like your simplest and [most direct] lines best [page cut away]
You say you find great pleasure in reading my verses. Let somebody somewhere whom you do not know have the same pleasure in reading yours: [strip cut away]
Goodbye. Whenever you like to send me a word, I shall always be glad to hear: and for all the verses you send me, I shall thank you. - [Roberts Bros. Boston] is the address which will always find me wherever I am.
Most truly yours