A letter To Merival from an old maiden aunt, Who's given her life to teaching, pensioned now And visiting at Madison, Wisconsin. Aunt Cynthia writes to Merival and says: "I know you are fatigued, a little tired With troubles of the lower plane of life. Quit thinking of the war and Elenor Murray. Each soul should use its own divinity By mastering nature outward and within. Do this by work or worship, Soul's control, Philosophy, by one or more or all. Above them all be free. This is religion, And all of it. Books, temples, dogmas, rituals Or forms are details only. By these means Find God within you, prove that you and God Are one, not several, justify the ways Of God to man, to speak the western way. I wish you could be here while I am here With Arielle, she is a soul, a woman. You need a woman in your life, my dear-- I met her in Calcutta five years since, She and her husband toured the world--and now She is a widow these two years. I started Arielle in the wisdom of the East. That avid mind of hers devours all things. She is an adept, but she thinks her sense Of fun and human nature as the source Of laughter and of tears keep her from being A mystic, though she uses Hindu thought And practice for her soul." "I'd like to send Some pictures of her, if she'd let me do it: Arielle with her dogs upon the lawn, Her arms about their necks. Or Arielle About her flowers. I've another one, Arielle on her favorite horse: another, Arielle by her window, hand extended, The very soul of rhythm; and another, Arielle laughing like a rising sun, No one can laugh as she does. For you see Her outward soul is love, her inward soul Is wisdom and that makes her what she is: A Robin Goodfellow, a Puck, a girl, A prankish wit, a spirit of bright tears, A queenly woman, clothed in majesty, A rapture and a solace, comrade, friend, A lover of old women such as I; A mother to young children, for she keeps A brood of orphans in her little town. She is a will as disciplined as steel, Has suffered and grown wise. Her tenderness Is hidden under words so brief and pure You cannot sense the tenderness in all Until you read them over many times. She is a lady bountiful, who gives As prodigally as nature, and she asks No gifts from you, but gets them anyway, Because all spirits pour themselves to her. If I were taking for America A symbol, it would be my Arielle And not your Elenor Murray."