Dear Friend.
These thoughts disquiet me, and the great friend is gone, who
could solace them. Do they disturb you?

The Spirit lasts-but in what mode-
Below, the Body speaks,
But as the Spirit furnishes-
Apart, it never talks-
The Music in the Violin
Does not emerge alone
But Arm in Arm with Touch, yet Touch
Alone-is not a Tune-
The Spirit lurks within the Flesh
Like Tides within the Sea
That make the Water live, estranged
What would the Either be?
Does that know-now-or does it cease-
That which to this is done,
Resuming at a mutual date
With every future one?
Instinct pursues the Adamant,
Exacting this Reply-
Adversity if it may be, or
Wild Prosperity,
The Rumor's Gate was shut so tight
Before my Mind was sown,
Not even a Prognostic's Push
Could make a Dent thereon-
With the trust you live,
E. Dickinson.