The paper has just been forwarded here which tells me you are still suffering,1 and not, as I was fondly believing, already quite emerged from the cloud of sickness. My Darling—let me use that tender caressing word once more, for how can I help it, with heart so full & no outlet but words? loc_cb.00146.jpg My darling. I say it over & over to myself with voice with eyes so full of love—of tender yearning sorrowful longing love. I would give all the world if I might come (but am held here yet awhile inexorably by a duty nothing may supersede) & soothe & tend & wait on you & with such cheerful loving companionship lift off some of the weight of the long hours & days & perhaps months that must still go over while nature is slowly, imper loc_cb.00147.jpgceptibly but still so surely repairing the mischief within, result of the tremendous ordeal to your frame of those great overbrimming years of life spent in the Army Hospitals.2 You see dear Friend a woman who is a mother has thenceforth something of that feeling toward all men who are dear to her—a cherishing fostering instinct that makes her rejoice so in all personal service to them. O I should be so happy it needs must diffuse a reviving loc_cb.00144.jpg comforting vivifying warmth around you. Might but these words breathed out of the inmost heart of a woman who loves you with her whole soul & life & strength fulfil their errand & comfort the sorrowful heart, if ever so little—and through that help to revive the drooping frame! This love that has grown up far away over here, unhelped by the sweet influences of personal intercourse, penetrating the whole substance of a loc_cb.00150.jpg woman's life, swallowing up into itself all her aspirations, hopes, longings, regardless of Death, looking earnestly confidently beyond that for fruition blending more or less with every thought & act of her life a guiding star that her feet cannot choose but follow resolutely—what can be more real than this dear Friend. What can have deeper roots, or a more immortal growing power within it? But I do not loc_cb.00152.jpg ask any longer whether this love is believed in & welcome & precious to you: For I know that what has real roots cannot fail to bear real flowers and fruits that will in the end be sweet and joygiving to you; and that if I am indeed capable of being your eternal comrade, climbing whereon you climb, daring all that you dare, learning all that you learn, suffering all that you suffer (pressing loc_cb.00153.jpg closest then) enjoying all that you enjoy, you will want me, will not be able to help stretching out your hand & drawing me to you. I have written this mostly out in the fields as I am so fond of doing—the serene beautiful harvest landscape spread around, returns once more, as I have every summer for five & twenty years, to this old village where my mother's family have lived in unbroken succession three hundred years, ever since in fact, the old Priory they loc_cb.00149.jpg have inhabited ceased to be a Priory at the dissolution of monasteries—My Mother's3 health is still good—wonderful, indeed, for 88 though she has been 30 years crippled by rheumatism. Still she enjoys getting out in the Sunshine in her Bath chair & is able to take pleasure in seeing her friends & in having us all with her. Her father was a hale man at 90.4—These eastern counties are flat & tame but yet under this soft smiling summer sky lovely enough too—with loc_cb.00156.jpg their rich delicious green meadows abundant golden corn crops now being well got in & thickly scattered old homesteads each with gay garden, & picturesque villages shaded by tall elms. Even the sluggish little river Colne one cannot find fault with, it nourishes such a luxuriant border of wild flowers as it creeps along, & turns & twists about from sunshine into shade & shade into sunshine so as to make the very best & most loc_cb.00158.jpg of itself. But as to the human growth here, I think that perhaps more than anywhere else in England it struggles along choked & poisoned by dead things of the past still holding their place above ground.
I did not see William Rossetti5 before I came down but heard that he had had a very happy time in Italy & splendid weather all the while. Mr. Conway6 & his wife7 & three children loc_cb.00159.jpg are gone to Brittany for their holiday.
My boys & girls are well—except indeed that I am afraid Percy8 finds his health somewhat affected by the constant inhaling of unwholesome gases analyzing ores all day long, but he is going to have better appliances in his laboratory which will I hope remove or lessen very much the evil. In other respects he likes his work & is getting good experience
loc_cb.00155.jpgMay this find you by the sea shore—getting on so fast,—the friend you love best with you, comforted, refreshed soul and body—perfect harmony between these two restored once more so that you step forth with strong & buoyant step to complete your great purpose.
Good bye beloved friend Annie Gilchrist.Correspondent:
Anne Burrows Gilchrist
(1828–1885) was the author of one of the first significant pieces of
criticism on Leaves of Grass, titled "A Woman's Estimate
of Walt Whitman (From Late Letters by an English Lady to W. M. Rossetti)," The Radical 7 (May 1870), 345–59. Gilchrist's long
correspondence with Whitman indicates that she had fallen in love with the poet
after reading his work; when the pair met in 1876 when she moved to
Philadelphia, Whitman never fully returned her affection, although their
friendship deepened after that meeting. For more information on their
relationship, see Marion Walker Alcaro, "Gilchrist, Anne Burrows (1828–1885)," Walt
Whitman: An Encyclopedia, ed. J.R. LeMaster and Donald D. Kummings (New
York: Garland Publishing, 1998).