From: Love-Letters of Margaret Fuller, 1845-1846
Published: 1903 New York
I will use the word again and correct my mistake; and yet was not that mistake an instinct, seeking the woman in you, when myself was in the melting mood? I have come in, while the sun still shines and the warm airs blow, pleasing myself to give up to you a part of the first beautiful afternoon we have had for long, since you, probably, are not enjoying it, neither will I this day any longer.
You say, the sadness has been on you for some time. So has it upon me, and Nature has reflected our feelings, instead of, like a good mother, displaying sweet love to win us from them; it has been either too damp, or cold to a degree which to my frame is absolutely cruel, but now the mild winds have come again! Pray heaven they may continue, and we both may have sweeter, brighter hours and moods. Yet this is sweet to me, that you come to my heart to soothe away your sadness; it would be to me the dearest office. I have felt so often, that I could find comfort in you and wished to fly thither like a bird, and I would have you come to me like the sick lion and let me see if I cannot take out the thorn–and if I cannot, let me at least soothe to rest for a while.
You bid me, on beautiful evenings, if I sat alone in our bower, call you and you would presently be there. If it should indeed be sad on the wide waters, will you not, on your side, call me? And I will hasten there, wherever I be or howsoever engaged.
Yes! dearest, the sadness will crystallize more and more the burning coal, or what was burning, to diamond, and what was the heat of life shall be turned to permanent light.
This was what I forgot to say to you, that the Greek thought about Hecate and Diana seemed to me the same that had risen in your mind about the volcanic nature of the moon and her pure white light. White! We will be worthy to wear white. “La dame blanche nous regarde;” we will not act lightly or faithlessly. I like much your way of writing to me on the music; it binds me with the past, besides seeming so appropriate now. I was also much pleased to hear you speak of looking for the moss-rose again–that is the most modest and yet most full of all the roses–may it bloom again for you!
I do not wish the past eclipsed or forgotten, but I do long to see you entirely consoled, and that the deep wound should seem to be a mine which opened such precious treasures as to make the violence with which it was done forgotten. Yet I prize you more, that this may not easily be done. You have asked me not to cross my letters, so I will not now write any more. Shall I not see you to-morrow, if it is still lovely? And come so as to have some sunshine with me, as well as evening dusk.
The baby has just brought me two sweet roses. I wish I could send you one fresh.
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