I purposed to spend the winter
in study and self-collection, and to write constantly. I
thought I should thus be induced to embody in beautiful
forms all that lay in my mind, and that life would ripen into
genius. But a very little while these fair hopes bloomed; and,
since I was checked then, I do never expect to blossom forth
on earth, and all postponements come naturally. At that time
it seemed as if angels left me. Yet, now, I think they still
are near. Renunciation appears to be entire, and I quite
content; yet, probably, 't is no such thing, and that work is
to be done over and over again.'
* * * * *
'Do you believe our prayers avail for one another? and that
happiness is good for the soul? Pray, then, for me, that I may
have a little peace,--some green and flowery spot, 'mid which
my thoughts may rest; yet not upon fallacy, but only upon
something genuine. I am deeply homesick, yet where is that
home? If not on earth, why should we look to heaven? I would
fain truly live wherever I must abide, and bear with full
energy on my lot, whatever it is.
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