Long and often as I’ve sat in intense silent passion and gazed at the red, red sunset sky, I have never then felt this sense of the divine. It comes only through humor. It comes only with things like an Italian peddler-woman in a black satine wrapper and an ancient cape. My soul--how heavily it goes. Life is a journeying up a spring-time hill. And at the top we wonder why we are there. Have mercy on me, I implore in a dull idea that the journey is so long--so long, and a human being is less than an atom. The solid, heavy figure of an Italian peddler-woman with a telescope valise, limping away in the afternoon sunshine, is more convincing of the Things that Are than would be the sound of the wailing of legions of lost souls, could it be heard. For the world must be amused. And the world’s wind listeth as it bloweth. April 11. I write a great many letters to the dear anemone lady. I send some of them to her and others I keep to read myself. I like to read letters that I have written--particularly that I have written to her. This is a letter that I wrote two days ago to my one friend: “To you:-- “And don’t you know, my dearest, my friendship with you contains other things? It contains infatuation, and worship, and bewitchment, and idolatry, and a tiny altar in my soul-chamber whereon is burning sweet incense in a little dish of blue and gold. “Yes, all of these. “My life is made up of many outpourings. All the outpourings have one point of coming-together. You are the point of coming-together. There is no other. “You are the anemone lady. “You are the one whom I may love. “To think that the world contains one beautiful human being for me to love! “It is wonderful. “My life is longing for the sight of you. My senses are aching for lack of an anemone to diffuse itself among them. “A year ago, when you were in the high school, often I used to go over there when you would be going home, so that my life could be made momentarily replete by the sight of you. You didn’t know I was there--only a few times when I spoke to you. “And now it is that I remember you. “Oh, my dearest--you are the only one in the world! “We are two women. You do not love me, but I love you. “You have been wonderfully, beautifully kind to me. “You are the only one who has ever been kind to me. “There is something delirious in this--something of the nameless quantity. “It is old grief and woe to live nineteen years and to remember no person ever to have been kind. But what is it--do you think?--at the end of nineteen years, to come at last upon one who is wonderfully, beautifully kind! “Those persons who have had some one always to be kind to them can never remotely imagine how this feels.