Capitolo 29
again, to this cousin's house in New York, bringing Georgian with
them to spend the summer.
Nothing is happened since then. Only Sylvia and I are making hay
while the sun shines--or it doesn't shine, if one chooses to concern
The absence of Georgian in that cloudy way. The armor to the agenda of Sylvia
it consists of a blackboard-pencil for a lance, a blackboard for a shield and
a volume of Lord Walter for a battle-ax. Now and then I have found
his/her session alone in the pergola with the air that bends of Lucy Ashton
close to the fountain; and she would arrange better if I satisfied her/it
covertly there in mantle and it decks out with the deadly complexion
of Ravenswood.
The other day I picked her/it up tiring himself/herself/itself to anything, and she admitted
being at work on a poem that would be on half until the
"Disposition of the last Minstrel." You read me the opening it flanks, later
that kind habit of young writer; and as almost as me I remember,
they started as it follows:
"Me hook to have gardens, me hook to have cried, me hook to have
you air, and me to love to have ants."
When not under the spell of cavalry of mediaeval she superfluously chirrups
of Georgian, early life and their old house in Henderson. Even if
I have pointed out to her the gross impropriety of his/her behavior, her
you/he/she has persisted in to read me some of the letters of Georgian, written
from that cousin's house in New York which mother that they are now
visiting. I didn't like particularly _him_. Sylvia reports that
he was a favorite of his/her father.
The dull month spends to-day. A thing to which I have secretly desired
you learn; did his/her brother stop completely the fingers of the foot of Georgian?
VIII
To August the pale one and delicate poetry of the earth of Kentucky do
it felt as silence and rest. He/she anchors skies, still woods, still
sheets of water of forest, assemble still and herds, passages leaving without long breath
without a traveller's sound through fields of the universal one