_Brook Farm_, Friday, July 9th, ½ past 5 P.M. [1841]
Oh, unutterably ownest wife, no pen can write how I have longed for
thee, or for any the slightest word from thee; for thy Sunday's letter
did not reach me till noon of this very day! Never was such a thirst
of the spirit as I have felt. I began to wonder whether my Dove did
really exist, or was only a vision; and canst thou imagine what a
desolate feeling that was. Oh, I need thee, my wife, every day, and
every hour, and every minute, and every minutest particle of forever
and forever.
Belovedest, the robe reached me in due season, and on Sabbath day, I
put it on; and truly it imparted such a noble and stately aspect to
thy husband, that thou couldst not possibly have known him. He did
really look tolerably personable! and, moreover, he felt as if thou
wert embracing him, all the time that he was wrapt in the folds of
this precious robe. Hast thou made it of such immortal stuff as the
robes of Bunyan's Pilgrim were made of? else it would grieve my very
heart to subject it to the wear and tear of the world.
Belovedest, when dost thou mean to come home? It is a whole eternity
since I saw thee. If thou art at home on a Sunday, I must and will
spend it with my ownest wife. Oh, how my heart leaps at the thought.
God bless thee, thou belovedest woman-angel! I cannot write a single
word more; for I have stolen the time to write this from the labors of
the field. I ought to be raking hay, like my brethren, who will have
to labor the longer and later, on account of these few moments which I
have given to thee. Now that we are in the midst of haying, we return
to our toil, after an early supper. I think I never felt so vigorous
as now; but, oh, I cannot be well without thee. Farewell,