To MARY CLAUDE.
When thoughts too mighty crowd upon the brain For usual phrase to utter or retain, Then--the quaint art of verse--the neat disguise Of many fancy-breeding similes-- Helps to unload a mind too sorely prest; For motion sometimes eases more than rest. Of birth, and death, of hope begun and ended, Of two good Spirits to their home ascended, Of one dear soul, with tiny body blent Mere life as yet, a breathing innocent, Are all the tidings that I have to tell-- What can I say, but that they all--are well?
She, long a pain-expecting sufferer, Is now released--our loss is gain to her. Kind Death unknit the sad perplexity Of his worse sorrows' awful mystery. Doubt not she hath a spiritual frame of light That bears no symbol of the scars, which Eve Bequeath'd to all her offspring, sore or slight; But all must bear the portion they receive-- And surely he hath now his mind again. No frail dependent upon nerve or brain, But a pure reason, face to face to see The truths he once believed in pure humility.1
Very bad, but they hint at my meaning--I will write more in a day or two.
Believe me, with best love to all, Yours affectionately
April 12, [Postmark 1845.]
If not corresponsive you will at least admit that I am on this occasion--responsive. May you and your good lady have____________________