From: Love-Letters of Margaret Fuller, 1845-1846
Author:
Published: 1903 New York
Saturday morning.
I have slept sweetly; the sun rises bright, yet still I feel sick at heart. May I find just the right word in town from you, or rather see you. If I do not, it will seem very dark. But this is your last day in the busy mart amid the falsehoods. I will cheer myself beneath that sad word—the last—by thinking you will soon be on your way to scenes more congenial to one of Grossmuth, Sanftmuth and Wahrheit.
This will not, I believe, be my last letter as I wrote. There must be a better, fuller, deeper tone.
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