To Helen Hunt Jackson
From Emily Dickinson

March 1885

draft no. 1

Dear friend -

To reproach my own Foot in behalf of your's, is involuntary, and finding myself, no solace in "whom he loveth he chasteneth" your Valor astounds me. It was only a small Wasp, said the French Physician, repairing the sting, but the strength to perish is sometimes withheld, though who but you could tell a Foot.

Take all away from me, but leave me Ecstasy
And I am richer then, than all my Fellow Men.
Is it becoming me to dwell so wealthily
When at my very Door are those possessing more,
In abject poverty?

Thank you for hoping I am well. Who could be ill in March, that Month of proclamation? Sleigh Bells and Jays contend in my Matinee, and the North surrenders, instead of the South, a reverse of Bugles.

Pity me, however, I have finished Ramona.

Would that like Shakespere, it were just published! Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your Foot were intuitive - but I am but a Pagan.

Of God we ask one favor,
That we may be forgiven -

Dear friend -

To reproach my own foot in behalf of your's is involuntary, and finding meager solace in "whom he chasteneth," your prowess astounds me. It was only a small Wasp, said the french physician repairing the sting, but the [ ] tell a foot.

Take all away from me, but leave me Ecstasy
And I am richer then I am [ ]

Take all away from me, but leave me Ecstasy,
And I am richer then, than all my Fellowmen.
Is it becoming me to dwell so wealthily,
When at my very Door are those possessing more,
in abject poverty.

That you glance at Japan as you breakfast, not in the least surprises me, thronged only with Music, like the Decks of Birds. Thank you for hoping I am well. Who could be ill in March, that Month of proclamation? Sleigh Bells and Jays contend in my Matinee, and the North surrenders instead of the South, a verse of Bugles. Pity me, however, I have finished Ramona.

Would that like Shakespeare, it were just published! Knew I how to pray, to intercede for your Foot were intuitive, but I am but a Pagan.

Of God we ask one favor,
That we may be forgiven -
For what, he is presumed to know -
The Crime, from us, is hidden -
Immured the whole of Life
Within a magic Prison
We reprimand the Happiness
That too competes with Heaven.

Your Dickinson.