The robin is the one
That, speechless from her nest,
Submits that home and certainty
And sanctity are best.
In the summer of 1863 I was wounded, and in hospital for a time, during which came this letter in pencil, written from what was practically a hospital for her, though only for weak eyes:—
Dear Friend,—Are you in danger? I did not know that you were hurt. Will you tell me more? Mr. Hawthorne died.
I was ill since September, and since April in Boston for a physician’s care. He does not let me go, yet I work in my prison, and make guests for myself.
Carlo did not come, because that he would die in jail; and the mountains I could not hold now, so I brought but the Gods.
I wish to see you more than before I failed. Will you tell me your health? I am surprised and anxious since receiving your note.