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"A mere improvisation"! But what is the use, dear friend, of writing poems like this to Harper's or any monthly or for the people who read such publications? If I know any thing of L. of G., or of you this is one of the most subtle, extraordinary little poems you ever wrote and so far from its being done off-hand it seems to me deeper than the deepest study—even to follow in thought the (double) meaning of it makes me feel giddy as in looking up, up, into the far sky. But what's the use, not 10 people of all who read the piece in Lippencotts will have the remotest idea what it is about—but, along with the rest, by and by, the true readers will come, and you, and the rest of the Leaves, being understood, this will be also—that is as far as such fairy-etherial touches, hints, can be understood or comprehended.

   

Am glad to hear that the "belly-ache" is easier—hope it has (or will soon) passed off entirely by this time.

All quiet here—pleasant autumn weather—cool, not too cold yet—pleasant driving—All same as ever with meter—i.e. "getting ready to begin" manufacturing—I expect we shall commence turning out meters quite early in the year and I do not know but this is soon enough—all well and all goes well

I send you my love RM Bucke