I am entirely satisfied & at peace "my Beloved—no words can say how divine a peace.1
Pain and joy struggle together in me (but joy getting the mastery, because its portion
is eternal) O the precious letter, bearing to me the living touch of your hand, vibrating
through & through me as I feel the pressure of the ring that pressed your flesh &
now will press mine so long as I draw breath.2 My Darling! take
comfort & strength & joy from me that you have made so rich
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& strong. Perhaps it will yet be given us to see each other, to travel the last stage
of this journey side by side, hand in hand—so completing the preparation for the fresh
start on the greater journey; me loving & blessing her you mourn,3
now for your dear sake.—then growing to know & love her in full unison with you.
I hope you will soon get to the sea—as soon as you are strong enough, that
is—& if you could have all needful care & comfort & a dear friend
with you there. For I believe you
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would get on faster away from Camden, & that it tends so to keep the wound open
& quivering to be where the blow fell on you—where every object speaks of
her last hours & is laden with heart stirring associations. Though I realize dearest
Friend that in the midst of the poignant sorrow come immortal sweet moments—communings,
rapt anticipations. But these would come the same in natures great soothing arms by
the seashore with her reviving invigorating breath playing freely over you. If only
you could get
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just strong enough prudently to undertake the journey.
When my eyes first open in the
morning, often such tender thoughts yearning ineffably pitying sorrowful sweet thoughts
flow into my breast that longs & longs to pillow on itself the suffering head (with
white hair more beautiful to me than the silvery clouds which always make me think of
it.—my hands want to be so helpful, tending, soothing, serving my whole frame to
support the stricken side4—O to comfort his heart—to diffuse round him such
warm sunshine of love, helping time & the inborn vigour of each organ that the
disease could not
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withstand the influences, but healthful life begin to flow again through every part. My
children send their love, their earnest sympathy. Do not feel anyways called on to write
except when inwardly impelled. Your silence is not dumb to me now—will never again
cloud or pain, or be misconstrued by me. I can feast & feast, & still have wherewithal
to satisfy myself with the sweet & precious words that have now come & with the
feel of my ring,
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only send any old paper that comes to hand (never mind whether there is anything to read
in it or not) just as a sign that the breath of love & hope these poor words try to
bear to you, has reached. And just one word literally that, Dearest, when you begin to feel
you are really getting on—to make me so joyful with the news.
Back again in Marquis Road.5
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).