Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.
His Answer to Her LetterBret Harte (18361902)
B
Which the same I would term as a friend—
Which his health it were vain to call hearty,
Since the mind to deceit it might lend;
For his arm it was broken quite recent,
And has something gone wrong with his lung,—
Which is why it is proper and decent
I should write what he runs off his tongue.
To the end,—and the end came too soon.
That a slight illness kept him your debtor
(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon),
That his spirits are buoyant as yours is;
That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate,
(Which the language that invalid uses
At times it were vain to relate).
For once being held in your thought;
That each rock holds a wealth that is rarer
Than ever by gold-seeker sought—
(Which are words he would put in these pages,
By a party not given to guile;
Which the same not, at date, paying wages,
Might produce in the sinful a smile.)
And the ride, and the gate, and the vow,
And the rose that you gave him—that very
Same rose he is treasuring now;
(Which his blanket he’s kicked on his trunk, Miss,
And insists on his legs being free;
And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,
Is frequent and painful and free.)
But are happy and gay all the while;
That he knows—(which this dodging of pillows
Imparts but small ease to the style,
And the same you will pardon)—he knows, Miss,
That, though parted by many a mile,
Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss,
They’d melt into tears at your smile.
In your brief twilight-dreams of the past,
In this green laurel-spray that he treasures.
It was plucked where your parting was last.
In this specimen—but a small trifle—
It will do for a pin for your shawl;
(Which the truth not to wickedly stifle,
Was his last week’s “clean up”—and his all.)
Were it not that I scorn to deny
That I raised his last dose for a change, Miss,
In view that his fever was high,
But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive;
And, now, my respects, Miss, to you;
Which, my language, although comprehensive,
Might seem to be freedom—it’s true.
As concerns a bull-pup, which the same—
If the duty would not overtask you—
You would please to procure for me, game,
And send per express to the Flat, Miss,
Which they say York is famed for the breed,
Which though words of deceit may be that—Miss,
I’ll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.
In other folks’ ways I despise—
Yet, if so be I was hearing
That it’s just empty pockets as lies
Betwixt you and Joseph—it follers
That, having no family claims,
Here’s my pile—which it’s six hundred dollars,
As is, yours, with respects,—T