
You cannot imagine, dear Walt, how peaceful and dreamy the landscape
is this morning—the air is full of great, white, soft feathers
that come down as tenderly upon the grass and trees as a mother's love
falls upon her child. I have never witnessed anything more exquisite.
The silence and quietude here this Sunday morning are equal to—they
are "the peace of God that passes all understanding."
It calls up that longing feeling—which visits us at intervals—to drop
the body and float off into the eternal stillnesses. Surely that will be the best
thing of all when it comes? I remember once when a little boy this feeling, passion
to escape into the real came upon me so strongly that for the time it seemed
I could hardly wait. But I am glad now I waited for had I not I might have missed
you
in that other land where "it is not chaos or death
but form, union, plan, eternal life, happiness."
I have not seen the "North American" yet—shall try and find it in town tomorrow. We are all well here—I send my love to you
So long! R M Bucke see notes Nov 5, 1890

