Miss Dickinson, those sweetest longings you have.
The splendor of life, rising and falling, dancing to mystic symphonies,
tussling with those hills; it's not familiar enough.
If I could lend but a bit of it.
My ungracious body is forgotten when the stars show themselves to me.
That alone is a wonder.
Well, Sir, I have my own
sphere of existence--
shunning society in favor
of my own quiet halls.
But what loneliness stifles thee-
Who ought in courts to reign so alone?
Ah, but I fear not loneliness.
I have company-
Rocks, Trees and Hills
and the Robin's song upon the sill.
Tell me, as a man among men,
gregarious and strong-
that walks the roads of fortune-
what think you of your kind?
Oh, the gift of gifts: to know another being.
My dear, I am not worthy of such perfect, trusting regard.
I am no competent judge of the foibles of men.
You ask much of me to discuss the ultimate human problem,
and I am sorry, Miss Dickinson, but I am not able to think much of it,
but that it shall never be within my power to decipher.
Well, sir, do you think that my steps
might be lengthened to match your own?
I might like to shed this turtle shell
and see what others miss.
O beauteous lady: a form so graceful-
the sweet, angelic face-
and, who, in her own company,
slumbers so sweetly--
you baffle me.
The wren has an angelic form
with wings that soar high above.
Content in plain brown feathers,
we each sleep softly in our own nest.
Shall I fill your glass of sherry?
I would see it warm your spirit
and loosen your tongue.
I should like to hear great tales.
My spirit is burning my friend. Another glass should set us both ablaze.
I am encouraged by what you see, Miss Dickinson. It is but one mystery of the vast cosmos. Were we to put our sights together, you and I, we would find some things exist betwixt that and the rest: grass and dirt and sky are all equal from one soul to another.