Letter 86 - June 12th, 1842 [Continued]
In the farthest valleys of my dreams,
A flitting ghost this maiden seems.
Like rising mist on an early Autumn’s eve,
Or dripping dewdrops on webs which spiders’ weave,
She hides away in dusky corners all alone—
Concealing the purest heart never shown.
But if she takes my hand forever,
Her gravest despair I shall sever.
And her happiness I vow to preserve;
Though her precious soul I do not deserve.
Love,
William
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