Postmark: Newport, July 3, 1819
Will you confess this in the Letter you must write immediately, and do all you can to console me in it – make it rich as a draught of poppies to intoxicate me – write the softest words and kiss them that I may at least touch my lips where yours have been.
For myself I know not how to express my devotion to so fair a form: I want a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair.
I almost wish we were butterflies and liv’d but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
~ J ~