February 1885

Dear friend -

To take the hand of my friend's friend, even apparitionally, is a hallowed pleasure.

I think you told me you were his kinsman.

I was only his friend - and cannot yet believe that

"his part in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the Southern Hills,
Is that this Grave is green."

Your task must be a fervent one - often one of pain.

To fulfill the will of a powerless friend supersedes the Grave.

Oh, Death, where is thy Chancellor? On my way to my sleep, last night, I paused at the Portrait. Had I not loved it, I had feared it, the Face had such ascension.

Go thy great way!
The Stars thou meetst
Are even as Thyself -
For what are Stars but Asterisks
To point a human Life?

Gratefully,
E. Dickinson -