letters from dickinson to otis phillips lord

about 1880

[I never heard you call anything beautiful before. It remained with me curiously -] There is a fashion in delight as other things.

Still (stern) as the Profile of a Tree against a winter sky (sunset sky -) (evening -)

[I kissed the little blank - you made it on the second page you may have forgotten -] I will not wash my arm - the one you gave the scarf to - it is brown as an Almond - 'twill take your touch away.

[I try to think when I wake in the night what the chapter would be for the chapter would be in the night would'nt it - but I cannot decide -]

It is strange that I miss you at night so much when I was never with you - but the punctual love invokes you soon as my eyes are shut - and I wake warm with the want sleep had almost filled - I dreamed last week that you had died - and one had carved a statue of you and I was asked to unvail it - and I said what I had not done in Life I would not in death when your loved eyes could not forgive - [The length of the hour was beautiful. The length of the heavenly hour how sweetly you counted it. The numerals of Eden do not oppress the student long] for Eden ebbs away to diviner Edens. [Therefore Love is so speechless - Seems to withold Darling]

I never seemed toward you

Lest I had been too franky was often my fear -

How could I long to give who never saw your natures Face -

This has been a beautiful Day - dear - given solely to you - carried in my thin hand to your distant hope [offer] offered softly and added - The haste of early summer is gone and a foreboding leisure is stealing over [natures] bustling things -

But why did you distrust your little Simon Peter yesterday - you said you did'nt but she knew you did - What did Nestor say you begun to tell me - To rest (cling) with you swept all day -

I sometimes [have] almost feared Language was done between us - [if you grew] too dear, except for breath, then words flowed softly in like [some] a shining secret, the Lode of which the miner dreams

I wonder we ever leave the Improbable - it is so fair a Home, and perhaps we dont -

What is half so improbable . . .

thomas johnson's note on letter 645 | index to dickinson/lord letters

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Last updated on December 3, 1999