I am writing,--a little now and then. About the same speed as always, never as much as I should like but enough to help me keep some faith in myself. In a few days you will get the next number of _Secession_ with my “Faustus and Helen” printed complete at last! I think you will also enjoy the essay by Frank. I enclose the last poem I have written, which you may not like at all. I haven’t much idea what you will say. I would to God that I could get more done on my poem, to be called _The Bridge_, but it cannot be the least bit hurried, not when one has to spend so much time at the office. --/--/ 180: TO HIS MOTHER [_New York City_] _March 8th_ Dear Grace and Grandma: --/--/ It has been like spring here. The weather veering from bright skies into showers. The wind blew a little snow this morning, but not a handful, and now there is brilliant sunlight, the wind continuing in almost a gale. It is always so pleasant to hear you mention spring in your letters: the note is so genuine. And while I like winter, too, and don’t respond as entirely to that season as you do, I sympathize with you much. It always makes me hope that we shall have a place in the country some time where I can come and go, and bring friends occasionally that will charm you, while you can have endless days and weeks for quiet reading and gardening. That beats life in the city all to pieces! --/--/ My dear, you know I can’t tell you much more about CA’s letters than I have been doing without retyping them or forwarding them on for you to return.[35] I am telling you all there is in them that is definite enough to matter, and while I have thought of sending them to you to read successively as they came,--something has made me feel that while there might be no harm in it, no real injustice, at the same time and in the sum of things, I think it a little confusing, somehow not quite right. I can’t put it into better words, but perhaps you will feel what I mean, and not misunderstand and think me obtuse or ungrateful, or unfeeling toward you. You see, it’s just because this present relationship between himself and myself was started on such an entirely fresh basis, without any more elements of the past entering into it than could be helped. And also, because, really I don’t yet have much idea as to how he really feels about me. He is a long time answering my letters, and I now haven’t heard from him for over two weeks and don’t know when I’m going to. I don’t feel that there is anything at present between us but a fragile thread of feeling and communication: perhaps there never will be anything more. At any rate we can speak on the street without getting upset about it. --/--/ 181: TO HIS MOTHER [_New York City_] _March 23 ’24_