Monday.
[June 30, 1845.]
I send back the prize poems which have been kept far too long even if I do not make excuses for the keeping — but our sins are not always to be measured by our repentance for them. Then I am well enough this morning to have thought of going out till they told me it was not at all a right day for it . . . too windy . . . soft and delightful as the air seems to be — particularly after yesterday, when we had some winter back again in an episode. And the roses do not die; Continue reading “#54”