I sent this, word-for-word & hand-written, to a boy once. From a letter from Emily Dickinson to Abiah Root, Jan 29, 1850 (Also from a letter from me to B. circa 1999):
I miss you very much indeed; think of you at night when the world’s nodding, nid, nid, nodding–think of you in the daytime when the cares of the world, and its continual vexations choke up the love for friends in some of our hearts; remember your warnings sometimes–try to do as you told me sometimes– and sometimes conclude it’s no use to try; then my heart says it is, and new trial is followed by disappointment again. I wondered, when you had gone, why we didn’t talk more, –it wasn’t for want of a subject; it never could be for that. Too many, perhaps, –such a crowd of people that nobody heard the speaker, and all went away discontented. You astonished me in the outset, perplexed me in the continuance and wound up in a grand snarl I shall be all my pilgrimage unravelling….
If you were here I would tell you something–several somethings–which have happened since you went away; but time and space, as usual, oppose themselves, and I put my treasures away till ‘we two meet again.’
(j. hope stein)