Your
E.B.B.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Friday Morning.
[Post-mark, December 19, 1845.]
I ought to have written yesterday: so to-day when I need a letter and get none, there is my own fault besides, and the less consolation. A letter from you would light up this sad day. Shall I fancy how, if a letter lay there where I look, rain might fall and winds blow while I listened to you, long after the words had been laid to heart? But here you are in your place—with me who am your own—your own—and so the rhyme joins on,
She shall speak to me in places lone
With a low and holy tone—
Ay: when I have lit my lamp at night
She shall be present with my sprite:
And I will say, whate'er it be,
Every word she telleth me!
She shall speak to me in places lone
With a low and holy tone—
Ay: when I have lit my lamp at night
She shall be present with my sprite:
And I will say, whate'er it be,
Every word she telleth me!
She shall speak to me in places lone
With a low and holy tone—
Ay: when I have lit my lamp at night
She shall be present with my sprite:
And I will say, whate'er it be,
Every word she telleth me!
She shall speak to me in places lone
With a low and holy tone—
Ay: when I have lit my lamp at night
She shall be present with my sprite:
And I will say, whate'er it be,
Every word she telleth me!
She shall speak to me in places lone
With a low and holy tone—
Ay: when I have lit my lamp at night
She shall be present with my sprite:
And I will say, whate'er it be,
Every word she telleth me!