Enough is so vast a sweetness, I suppose it never occurs, only pathetic counterfeits. Fabulous to me as the men of the Revelations who “shall not hunger any more.” Even the possible has its insoluble particle. After you went, I took “Macbeth” and turned to “Birnam Wood.” Came twice “To Dunsinane.” I thought and went about my work.... The vein cannot thank the artery, but her solemn indebtedness to him, even the stolidest admit, and so of me who try, whose effort leaves no sound. You ask great questions accidentally. To answer them would be events. I trust that you are safe. I ask you to forgive me for all the ignorance I had. I find no nomination sweet as your low opinion. Speak, if but to blame your obedient child. You told me of Mrs. Lowell’s poems. Would you tell me where I could find them, or are they not for sight? An article of yours, too, perhaps the only one you wrote that I never knew. It was about a “Latch.” Are you willing to tell me? [Perhaps “A Sketch.”] If I ask too much, you could please refuse. Shortness to live has made me bold. Abroad is close to-night and I have but to lift my hands to touch the “Heights of Abraham.” DICKINSON. When I said, at parting, that I would come again some time, she replied, “Say, in a long time; that will be nearer. Some time is no time.” We met only once again, and I have no express record of the visit. We corresponded for years, at long intervals, her side of the intercourse being, I fear, better sustained; and she sometimes wrote also to my wife, inclosing flowers or fragrant leaves with a verse or two. Once she sent her one of George Eliot’s books, I think “Middlemarch,” and wrote, “I am bringing you a little granite book for you to lean upon.” At other times she would send single poems, such as these:— THE BLUE JAY No brigadier throughout the year So civic as the jay. A neighbor and a warrior too, With shrill felicity Pursuing winds that censure us A February Day, The brother of the universe Was never blown away. The snow and he are intimate; I’ve often seen them play When heaven looked upon us all With such severity I felt apology were due To an insulted sky Whose pompous frown was nutriment To their temerity. The pillow of this daring head Is pungent evergreens; His larder—terse and militant— Unknown, refreshing things; His character—a tonic; His future—a dispute; Unfair an immortality That leaves this neighbor out. THE WHITE HEAT Dare you see a soul at the white heat? Then crouch within the door; Red is the fire’s common tint, But when the vivid ore Has sated flame’s conditions, Its quivering substance plays Without a color, but the light Of unanointed blaze.