Are you well and happy and enjoying this beautiful summer? London is, in one sense,
a sort of big prison at this time of year: but still at a wide open window with the
blue sky opening to me too & a soft breeze blowing
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in & the Book that is so dear—my life-giving treasure—open on
my lap. I have very happy times. No one hundreds of years hence will find deeper joy
in these poems than I—breathe the fresh sweet exhilarating air of them, bathe
in it, drink in what nourishes & delights the whole being, body intellect &
soul, more than I. Nor could you, when
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writing them have desired to come nearer to a human being & be more to them for
ever & for ever than you are & will be to me. O I take the hand you stretch out
each day—I put mine into it with a sense of utter fulfilment: I ask nothing more
of time and of eternity but to live and grow up to that companionship, that includes
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all.
6th. This very morning has come the answer to my
question—First I only saw the Poem—read it so elate—soared with
it to joyous heights—said to myself—he is so well again, he is able to take
the journey into Massachusetts & speak the kindling words—Then I turned
over and my joy was dashed. My Darling! such patience yet needed along the tedious
path! Oh it makes me long with
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passionate longing, with yearnings I know not how to bear, to come, to be your loving
cheerful companion, the one to take such care, to do all for you, to beguile the time,
to give you of my health as you have done to tens of thousands. I do not doubt either,
but that you will get well. I feel sure, sure it will be given me to see you And perhaps
a very slow, gradual recovery1 is safest is the only way in this as in other matters, to
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thoroughness & a very speedy rally would be specious, treacherous in the end,
leading you to do what you were not yet fit for. I believe if I could only make you
conscious of the love, the enfolding love my heart breathes out toward you, it would
do you physical good. Many sided love—Mothers love that cherishes, that delights
so in personal service that sees in sickness & suffering such dear appeals to
an answer
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limitless tenderness:—wife's love—ah you draw that from me too, resistlessly—I
have no choice—Comrades love, so happy in sharing all, pain, sorrow, toil, effort,
enjoyments, thoughts hopes, aims, struggles, disappointment, beliefs, aspirations. Childs
love too that trusts utterly, confides unquestioningly.—Not more spontaneously &
wholly without effort or volition on my part, does the sunlight flow into my eyes when I
open them in the morning
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than does the sense of your existence enter like bright light into my awaking soul. And
then I send to you thoughts—tender, caressing thoughts—that would fain nestle
so close—ah, if you could feel them, take them in, let them lie in your breast, each
morning.
My children are all well, dear Friend. Herbert2 is going to spend
his holidays with his brother3 in Wales—& we shall all
go to Colne as usual the end of this month, & remain there through August and September
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so if you think of it, address any paper you may send Earls Colne, Halstead, because
I should get it a day sooner. But it does not signify if you forget & send it here;
it will be forwarded all right. Beatrice4 has just got through
one of the Govern: Exams, in elementary mathematics and I hope Herby has got into the
Academy, but do not know for certain yet. He works away zealously and with great delight
in his work. William
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Rossetti and his wife5 are coming to dine with us Wednesday—they
look so well & happy it does one good to see them. The Conways6 are
going to Ostend I think for their holiday, & when they come back
going to move into a larger house. I heard an American lady, Miss
Whinery7
sing at a concert the other day, who delighted me, fascinated me—I longed to kiss
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her after each song, though some of them were poor enough Verdi8 stuff—but she contrived
to impart genuineness & beauty to them. I hope you will hear her when she returns to America,
which will be soon I believe.
Good bye, dearest Friend—Beatrice Herby & Grace9 join
their love with mine. I had the sweet little Bridal Poem all safe, & by the bye I
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liked that Springfield paper very much.
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).