Letter XXI.

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

Tuesday evening, 22d April.

  Your aid, dear friend, is all you ought to give and more than I would receive, knowing that the claims on one, placed as you have been and with your heart, must be numberless and boundless, did I not take especial pleasure in receiving it from you in this matter.

  I have written to Boston for the rest, as there are a circle of young and rich persons, whose purses were always open to my call, and who are desirous I should appeal to them in the same way from this distant sphere, when I think best. But I shall do it sparingly and only hope that the same affinities will draw to me here similar sponsors for my good desires. For at home I did not suffer that worst evil of narrow circumstances, inability to do any good in extreme cases, others being willing to do what was pointed out by me. I wish you would remind me to give you some particulars about this, as there is a sweet picture of generous sympathies which you would enjoy. There are innumerable pleasures worthy your acceptance and which I often wish to give you, of knowing the good and beautiful in books and men. I could bring you facts that would embellish all your mortal years, but ah! still this daily grief: There is not time.

  This very day have I been reading somewhat and long especially to impart, but it would take you a deep silent night-hour to enjoy it, and will you have such an one to spare?

  The little notice gave the glad certainty that you will remain a good part of the blissful May month. Last night which was so beautiful, I thought sadly that I had not enjoyed this moon with you, and should not, but you will at least see the May moon grow with us. I am willing to see her wane alone. If you are here some moonlight evening, I shall bring you up here, and show you the loveliness I see from my window,-to me enough to repay my coming to New York. I keep your guitar by this window; if only I could play upon it!

  Mit Sehnsucht, ja—infinite, exquisite, tremulously lovely, as this light upon the waters. But Wehmuth! Ah! the word is faint to express the depth of shadow, which yet the soul would not be without, for is it not the overshadowing of a heavenly birth?

  I had this morning the fairest rose, which my little lover Eddie Spring sent me, the only child of his rose-bush. I wanted to send it to you, as the reply to your note, but his mother was by, and I could not act out the perfidy of my heart, so it went home with me in the hot sun and withered so.

  This day has been one rapture; nature had decked herself during the rain with a thousand new charms, the most tender and delicate. The trees are in their fragrant veil of blossoms, the green deepening, the leaves opening each moment, every flower awake; the winds and waves full of happy inspiration.

  You can have no idea of the beauty of the myrtle-bed, as I pass to go down where we have been together, low on the rocks; it is now one heaven of blue flowers. I gathered two buds, one for you and one for me. While I sat there, it seemed too bad, that you were probably in the midst of dust, and of what your generous soul rejects far more painfully than the body can its kindred earth. But soon, soon you will be where you can expand and let your own life grow. When I sit alone on these rocks, I shall, at least, think it is well with you or besser! As you tell me of this uncongenial life, I feel it all, but long to lay a soft hand on your forehead, there between the eyebrows, where it makes you knit them so.

  Say, have not I the force to bless you from the distance? At evening you occupy me much. I know you are freer and often it seems that you are thinking of me. But the morning is the time I am most drawn towards you; often the image comes as the light first salutes my eyes; sometimes I have a rush of feeling, that seems like the passage of a spirit through me, and ought to Bow to you like blessing. This is the most beautiful feeling I ever experienced; it is indeed divine, and too much for mortal force: there is no music for it; it can never, I fear me, be expressed. I have abjured dread, and yet with it comes dread, lest it return no more. Like sunset it cannot be remembered. Farewell, dear Friend, bless me if you can.

  P. S. Since finishing, I receive nearly forty dollars from Boston. I send you a leaf of the note, that you may see-my daughters are as good, as yours. My friend, Mrs. Ward, gave me five dollars, that with yours is enough!

  The moon has just risen; oh it is almost too beautiful. I hope you feel as happy as I do. This moment is so happy, when human beings are kind and do not jar with Nature.

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