Letter XXVI (with an unpublished poem).

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

Wednesday evening, 7th.

  Mein Liebster, do not reproach yourself as the cause·of what I suffered yesterday, for the fault was with my own imprudence. I knew I was not well able to stand or walk, but there was no good place to sit still, and I was so bent on hearing you out, I could not bear to say this. I wish much I were strong, that I might be a fit companion for you and not weigh upon your motions. Coming home, I lay down in the dark room, and the dark was what I wanted. Shutting out all outward objects, the thoughts seem to grow upon me and clothe themselves in forms and colors so glorious. Much, much appeared before the closed eyes. Mein Liebster, you tell me to rest, but how can I rest when you rouse in me so many thoughts and feelings? What good does it do for you to stay away, when, absent or present, every hour you grow upon me and the root strikes to my inmost life! There is far more repose in being with you, when your look fills my eye and your voice my ear, than in trying to keep still, for then these endless thoughts rush upon me. And then comes, too, that tormenting sense that only a few days more shall we be together, and how can I rest, though indeed I am desirous to do as you desire.

  It was hard for me to have you pass from the door unseen by me. I would have given much to call you to me for one cheering moment, but that the customs of this world did not permit, and I was unable to rise and go to you. It is impossible now for me to express the many thoughts born in my mind from yours, but time and unison will perhaps perfect them and enable me to do it; if not, it is no matter, as they are all yours and must at any rate bloom in your garden, perhaps far larger and fairer. Yet the birds from your own bosom should return perfected in beauty and song to their nest.

  I send you within a little poem. It is one of those I wrote last Summer when living quite alone in a country house, near a thick wood, where I passed many sweet hours. It seems to me a prelude to this time. How much in the past so seems, were but one full strain permitted!

  O my God! My friend, unspeakably affecting to me was your appeal to the angels. I also bow the head to their commands, to their prohibitions. But that is only on one side. On the other, life seems so full, so creative. Every hour an infinite promise. I cannot keep in mind prohibitions or barriers or fates. You said: “write without concentration,” and surely I have done so, written I know not what, for the sense of all that has flowed through my mind, confuses it, and makes my head ache again. But take it gently, and take me near your heart. I must stop now and make one of those attempts to rest.

  I will be out at quarter past ten, will walk towards Bowling Green and then back again.

Poem, hitherto unpublished
July, 1844.

Lead, lunar ray
To the crossing of the way,
Where to secret rite
Rises the armed knight,
My champion for the fight.

Fall heavier still, sweet rain,
Free from their pain
Plants, which still in earth
Are prisoned back from birth,—
Teach the Sun their worth.

Soul! long lie thus still,
Cradled in the will,
Which to this motley ball,
Sphere so great, so small,
Did thee call.

Suns have shone on thee
Brooding thy mystery.
Now, this sweet rain
Might free from the pain
Of birth the golden grain.

Yet within the nest
Patience still were best,
Birds of my thought!
Food shall be brought
To you my mother Thought.

Let your wings grow strong,
For the way is long
To that other zone,
Where glows the throne
Of your phoenix-king so lone.

Nestle still, keep still,
Cradled by the will
Which must you daily fill,
If, while callow, ye keep still.

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