a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 #

letra de letter to t w higginson, 25 april 1862 - julie harris

mr higginson

your kindness claimed earlier gratitude-but i was ill-and write today, from my pillow

thank you for the surgery- it was not so painful as i supposed. i bring you others-as you ask-though they might not differ-

while my thought is undressed-i can make the distinction, but when i put them in the gown – they look alike, and numb

you asked how old i was? i made no verse-but one or two-until this winter – sir-

i had a terror-since september-i could tell to none-and so i sing, as the boy does by the burying ground-because i am afraid- you inquire my books-for poets-i have keats-and mr and mrs browning. for prose – mr ruskin – sir thomas browne – and the revelations. i went to school-but in your manner of the phrase-had no education. when a little girl, i had a friend, who taught me im- mortality-but venturing too near, himself-he never returned-soon after, my tutor, died – and for several years, my lexicon – was my only companion-then i found one more-but he was not contented i be his scholar-so he left the land

you ask of my companions hills- sir-and the sundown-and a dog-large as myself, that my father bought me-they are better than beings-because they know-but do not tell-and the noise in the pool, at noon – excels my piano. i have a brother and sister – my mother does not care for thought-and father, too busy with his briefs – to notice what we do – he buys me many books – but begs me not to rcad thcm-because he fears they joggle the mind. they are religious-except me-and address an eclipse, every morning-whom they call their “father.” but i fear my story fatigues you-i would like to learn-could you tell me how to grow-or is it unconveyed- like melody-or witchcraft?

you speak of mr whitman-i never read his book-but was told that he was disgraceful-

i read miss prcscott’s “circumstance,” but it followed me, in the dark-so i avoided her-

two editors of journals came to my father’s house, this winter- and asked me for my mind-and when i asked them “why,” they said i was penurious – and they, would use it for the world –

i could not weigh myself-myself-

my size felt small- to me- i read your chapters in the atlantic- and experienced honor for you-i was sure you would not reject a confiding question-

is this- sir-what you asked me to tell you?
your friend
e – d-ckinson

- julie harris

letras aleatórias

MAIS ACESSADOS