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  My dearest Friend

Such a joyful surprise was that last paper you sent me, with the Poem celebrating the great events in Spain—the new hopes, the new life wakening in the hearts of that fine People which has slumbered so long weighed down & tormented with hideous nightmares of   superstition.—Are you indeed getting strong & well again? able to drink in draughts of pleasure from the sights & sounds & perfumes of this delicious time, "lilac-time"—according to your wont? Sleeping well—eating well, dear Friend?

William Rossetti is comin to see me Thursday, before starting for his holiday trip to Naples. His father was a Neapolitan, who narrowly escaped a lifelong dungeon   for having written some patriotic Songs—he fled in disguise by help of English friends & spent the rest of his life here. So this, his first visit to Naples, will be specially full of interest & delight to our friend. He is also in great spirits at having discovered a large number of hitherto unknown early letters of Shelley's. Of modern English Poets Shelley is the one he loves & admires incomparably the most.—Perhaps this letter will just reach you   on your birthday. What can I send you? What can I tell you but the same old story of a heart fast anchored—of a soul to whom your soul is as the sun & the fresh, sweet air, and the nourishing, sustaining earth wherein the other one breathes free & feeds & expands & delights itself. There is no occupation of the day however homely that is not coloured, elevated, made more cheerful to me by thought of you & by thoughts you have   given me blent in & suffusing all: No hope or aim or practical endeavour for my dear children that has not taken a higher larger more joyous scope through you. No immortal aspiration, no thoughts of what lies beyond death but centre in you. And in moods of pain and discouragement dear Friend I turn to that Poem beginning "Whoever you are holding me now in hand" and I don't know but that that one revives & strengthens   me more than any. For there is not a line nor a word in it at which my spirit does not rise up instinctive and fearlessly say—So be it. And then I read other Poems & drink in the draught that I know is for me, because it is for all—the love that you give me on the broad ground of my humanity and womanhood. And I understand the reality &   preciousness of that. Then I say to myself Souls are not made to be frustrated—to have their greatest & best & sweetest impulses and aspirations & yearnings made abortive. Therefore we shall not be "carried diverse" forever. This dumb soul of mine will not always remain hidden from you—but some way will be given me for this love, this passion of gratitude, this set of all the nerves of my being toward you, to bring joy   & comfort to you. I do not ask the When or the How.—

I shall be thinking of your great & dear Mother in her beautiful old age, too, on your birthday—happiest woman in all the world that she was & is: forever sacred & dear to America & to all who feed on the Poems of her Son.

Good bye my best beloved Friend. Annie Gilchrist.

I suppose you see all that you care to see in the way of English newspapers. I often long to send you one when there is anything in that I feel sure would interest you, but am withheld by fearing it would be quite superfluous or troublesome even