TO: Louise Norcross
I have more to say to you all than March has to the maples, but then I cannot write in bed. I read a few words since I came home - John Talbot's parting with his son, and Margaret's with Suffolk. I read them in the garret, and the rafters wept.
Remember me to your company, their Bedouin guest.
Every day in the desert, Ishmael counts his tents. New heart makes new health, dear.
Happiness is haleness. I dreamed last night I heard bees fight for pond-lily stamens, and waked with a fly in my room.
Shall you be strong enough to lift me by the first of April? I won't be half as heavy as I was before. I will be good and chase my spools.
I shall think of my little Eve going away from Eden. Bring me a jacinth for every finger, and an onyx shoe.