Letter XIII.

From: Love-Letters of Margaret Fuller, 1845-1846
Published: 1903 New York

Saturday evening, March 31st


  I feel a strong desire to write you a few words at the close of this sweet day. And yet, there are no words, many or few, in which I can even begin to utter, what there is to say. It is indeed true, that the time is all too short. To feel, that there is to be so quick a bound to intercourse, makes us prize the moment, but then also makes it so difficult to use it. Yet this one thing I wish to say, where so many must be left unsaid. You tell me, that I may, probably, never know you wholly. Indeed the obstacles of time and space may prevent my understanding the workings of character; many pages of my new book may be shut against me. But to know the natural music of the being, what it is, will be, or may be, needs not long acquaintance and this perhaps is known to me, better than to yourself. Perhaps? I believe in Ahnungen beyond anything.

  Has this sweetest day been spent by you in busy life or doubtful thoughts? For that I grieve; it is so much more lovely, than yesterday; the mood in nature far tenderer and more expansive. I must again write you of the birds; it is in early morning that they are in such a rapture; their songs at other hours are cold and tame in comparison. I perceive they have learned and lived, since I first wrote of them. Then their notes were timid; they were not sure but they must perish with cold before they could enjoy he sunshine of this beautiful world, but now they have had some of it, and are content. Will you smile at such a trifle being written down? After all, what better can we tell one another than those little things? Each is a note in the great music book, which historians and critics never opened, but which contains all that is worth our singing. Oh! there are glimpses in this world of a truly happy intercourse, simple as between little children, rich, various, intelligent as among perfected men. Sometime—somewhere.—Meantime benedicite.

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