< a817.txt.1; letter_with_poems_embedded >
Dear friend -
To reproach
my own Foot in
behalf of your's,
is involuntary,
and finding
myself, no solace
in "whom he loveth
he chasteneth"
your Valor astounds
me - It was only
a small Wasp,
said the French
Physician, repairing
the sting, but
the strength to
perish is sometimes

<second leaf (A 817a)>
withheld -though who
but you could
tell a Foot.
Take all away
from me, but leave
me Ecstasy
And I am richer
then, than all
my Fellow men -
Is it becoming
me to dwell so
wealthily
When at my very
Door are those
possessing more,
In abject poverty?
That you compass
"Japan" before you

<second sheet, first leaf (A 817b)>
you breakfast, not
in the least sur-
prises me, clogged
only with Music,
like the Wheels
of Birds -
Thank you for
hoping I am well -
Who could be
ill in March,
that Month of
proclamation?
Sleigh Bells and
Jays contend
in my Matinee,
and the North
surrenders, instead
of the South,

<second sheet, second leaf (A 817c)>
a reverse of
Bugles -
Pity me, however,
I have finished
Ramona -
Would that like
Shakespeare, it
were just published!
Knew I how to
pray, to intercede
for your Foot
were intuitive - but
I am but a
Pagan -
Of God we ask
one favor,
That we may
be forgiven -