I had powerful emotions, powerful, and sights of ’em—so did Al Faizi. He jest doted on Mrs. Browning’s poetry, and he sot a good deal of store by the poetry of her relict—her widderer. And Robert duz write first-rate, but pretty deep, some on ’em. I’ve grown real riz up and breathless a-hearin’ Thomas J. read about “How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix.” And I love to hear Thomas J. read about the “Lost Leader,” and beautiful “Evelyn Hope,” and etc., etc. But, on the hull, I sot more store by the poems of his wife.
But, as I say, I always respected and admired Elizabeth’s widderer. He insisted on marryin’ the woman he loved, no matter how poor health she enjoyed. I presoom his folks objected and thought that Robert would do better to marry a woman that wuz enjoyin’ better health. But he never thought of doctors’ bills or poultices—things that fill up littler minds—no, indeed! nor she didn’t either. They felt only the supreme joy of congenial minds and hearts, and love that lifts the soul up to the divinest hites mortals can ever stand up on.
She says, and it seems almost like liftin’ a veil before the Holy of Holys, and as if I ortn’t to speak of it, but I will venter—
She sez:
“First time he kissed me, he but kissed
This hand wherewith I write,
And ever since it grew more fair and white,
Slow to world greetings, quick with its Oh, list!
When the angels speak.”
How the words fell from her innocent soul, and how they must always reach the same place in ’em who hear ’em, if they have got souls!