If we dwell here, we will make our own wine

September 25th. [1841]

One thing is certain. I cannot and will not spend the winter here. The time would be absolutely thrown away so far as regards any literary labour to be performed . . .

The intrusion of an outward necessity into labours of the imagination and intellect is, to me, very painful . . .

I had rather a pleasant walk to a distant meadow a day or two ago, and we found white and purple grapes in great abundance, ripe, and gushing with rich, pure juice when the hand pressed the clusters. Did you know what treasures of wild grapes there are in this land? If we dwell here, we will make our own wine . . .