Boston, Apr. 2nd, 1839
Mine own Dove,
I have been sitting by my fireside ever since teatime, till now it is past eight o clock; and have been musing and dreaming about a thousand things, with every one of which, I do believe, some nearer or remoter thought of you was intermingled. I should have begun this letter earlier in the evening, but was afraid that some intrusive idler would thrust himself between us, and so the sacredness of my letter would be partly lost; -- for I feel as if my letters were sacred, because they are written from my spirit to your spirit. I wish it were possible to convey them to you by other than earthly messengers to convey them directly into your heart, with the warmth of mine still lingering in them. When we shall be endowed with our spiritual bodies, I think they will be so constituted, that we may send thoughts and feelings any distance, in no time at all, and transfuse them warm and fresh into the consciousness of those whom we love. Oh what a bliss it would he, at this moment; if I could be conscious of some purer feeling, some more delicate sentiment, some lovelier fantasy, than could possibly have had its birth in my own nature, and therefore be aware that my Dove was thinking through my mind and feeling through my heart! Try some evening when you are alone and happy, and when you are most conscious of loving me and being loved by me and see if you do not possess this power already. But, after all, perhaps it is not wise to intermix fantastic ideas with the reality of our affection. Let us content ourselves to be earthly creatures, and hold communion ot spirit in such modes as are ordained to us by letters (dipping our pens as deep as may be into our hearts) by heartfelt words, when they can be audible; by glances through which medium spirits do really seem to talk in their own language and by holy kisses, which I do think have something supernatural in them.
And now good night, my beautiful Dove. I do not write any more at present, because there are three more whole days before this letter will visit you; and I desire to talk with you, each of those three days. Your letter did not come today.
Even if it should not come tomorrow, I shall not imagine that you forget me or neglect me, but shall heave two or three sighs, and measure salt and coal so much the more diligently. Good night; and if I have any power, at this distance, over your spirit, it shall be exerted to make you sleep like a little baby, till the "Harper of the Golden Dawn" arouse you. Then you must finish that ode. But do, if you love me, sleep. [continued the next day]
Mine own Dove,
I have been sitting by my fireside ever since teatime, till now it is past eight o clock; and have been musing and dreaming about a thousand things, with every one of which, I do believe, some nearer or remoter thought of you was intermingled. I should have begun this letter earlier in the evening, but was afraid that some intrusive idler would thrust himself between us, and so the sacredness of my letter would be partly lost; -- for I feel as if my letters were sacred, because they are written from my spirit to your spirit. I wish it were possible to convey them to you by other than earthly messengers to convey them directly into your heart, with the warmth of mine still lingering in them. When we shall be endowed with our spiritual bodies, I think they will be so constituted, that we may send thoughts and feelings any distance, in no time at all, and transfuse them warm and fresh into the consciousness of those whom we love. Oh what a bliss it would he, at this moment; if I could be conscious of some purer feeling, some more delicate sentiment, some lovelier fantasy, than could possibly have had its birth in my own nature, and therefore be aware that my Dove was thinking through my mind and feeling through my heart! Try some evening when you are alone and happy, and when you are most conscious of loving me and being loved by me and see if you do not possess this power already. But, after all, perhaps it is not wise to intermix fantastic ideas with the reality of our affection. Let us content ourselves to be earthly creatures, and hold communion ot spirit in such modes as are ordained to us by letters (dipping our pens as deep as may be into our hearts) by heartfelt words, when they can be audible; by glances through which medium spirits do really seem to talk in their own language and by holy kisses, which I do think have something supernatural in them.
And now good night, my beautiful Dove. I do not write any more at present, because there are three more whole days before this letter will visit you; and I desire to talk with you, each of those three days. Your letter did not come today.
Even if it should not come tomorrow, I shall not imagine that you forget me or neglect me, but shall heave two or three sighs, and measure salt and coal so much the more diligently. Good night; and if I have any power, at this distance, over your spirit, it shall be exerted to make you sleep like a little baby, till the "Harper of the Golden Dawn" arouse you. Then you must finish that ode. But do, if you love me, sleep. [continued the next day]
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