Letter 318 (early May 1866) - no ms. Mrs. J. G. Holland Emily Dickinson
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Dear Sister,
After you went, a low wind warbled through the house like a spacious bird, making it high but lonely. When you had gone the love came. I supposed it would. The supper of the heart is when the guest has gone.
Shame is so intrinsic in a strong affection we must all experience Adam's reticence. I suppose the street that the lover travels is thenceforth divine, incapable of turnpike aims.
That you be with me annuls fear and I await Commencement with merry resignation. Smaller than David you clothe me with extreme Goliath.
Friday I tasted life. It was a vast morsel. A circus passed the house - still I feel the red in my mind though the drums are out.
The book you mention, I have not met. Thank you for tenderness.
The lawn is full of south and the odors tangle, and I hear today for the first the river in the tree.
You mentioned spring's delaying - I blamed her for the opposite. I would eat evanescence slowly.
Vinnie is deeply afflicted in the death of her dappled cat, though I convince her it is immortal which assists her some. Mother resumes lettuce, involving my transgression - suggestive of yourself, however, which endears disgrace.
"House" is being "cleaned." I prefer pestilence. That is more classic and less fell.
Yours was my first arbutus. It was a rosy boast.
I will send you the first witch hazel.
A woman died last week, young and in hope but a little while - at the end of our garden. I thought since of the power of death, not upon affection, but its mortal signal. It is to us the Nile.
After you went, a low wind warbled through the house like a spacious bird, making it high but lonely. When you had gone the love came. I supposed it would. The supper of the heart is when the guest has gone.
Shame is so intrinsic in a strong affection we must all experience Adam's reticence. I suppose the street that the lover travels is thenceforth divine, incapable of turnpike aims.
That you be with me annuls fear and I await Commencement with merry resignation. Smaller than David you clothe me with extreme Goliath.
Friday I tasted life. It was a vast morsel. A circus passed the house - still I feel the red in my mind though the drums are out.
The book you mention, I have not met. Thank you for tenderness.
The lawn is full of south and the odors tangle, and I hear today for the first the river in the tree.
You mentioned spring's delaying - I blamed her for the opposite. I would eat evanescence slowly.
Vinnie is deeply afflicted in the death of her dappled cat, though I convince her it is immortal which assists her some. Mother resumes lettuce, involving my transgression - suggestive of yourself, however, which endears disgrace.
"House" is being "cleaned." I prefer pestilence. That is more classic and less fell.
Yours was my first arbutus. It was a rosy boast.
I will send you the first witch hazel.
A woman died last week, young and in hope but a little while - at the end of our garden. I thought since of the power of death, not upon affection, but its mortal signal. It is to us the Nile.
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