art by Cher Jiang Yale Station: Letters of Love |
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49 shopping days
(and its not til
Christmas)
April 21, 1947
My Small One,
Everything makes me impatient these deys -- I want
things to rush along -- because there 1s something
very nice to rush to; but the world cares very little
about that -- just moves sluggishly along at its usual
old pace.
I wish there were some way to capture the way you look
at me on Sundays when you're getting ready to go home.
At times like those, I wish very sincerely thet my
profession was art instead of engineering. -- they
are looks of adoration so decp and personal, that I
unconsciously look around -- wondering that others
are not sharing this very loud feeling with me. But
why try to describe it, when I hardly know, clearly,
just what is is. But I only know that they are moments
when I stand on a tall, majestic crest -- knowing that
I will never be raised higher than this in any human
mind or heart -- that I will never be richer than this.
In the upward valleys
Shouts are heard;
In the greener pastures
Travels word
Of some familiar story
New again;
Like sunshine after alpine snow...
or Rain.
(Silver bells at midnight --
Horns at hoon.)
Spun on longing-feedin
Or the moon
Or rippling in the water
Of a dream
That left some eon back,
The Mother stream
To flow into this valley --
On this field,
And burst the heart with fullness
Of its yield.
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