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By Root 17078 0

about in me this “fear”. Will you not remember that the hermit life which for the last three years I have led, buried in the woods of Fordham, has necessarily prevented me from learning anything of you, and will you still refuse to tell me at least one particular of your personal history? I feel that you cannot misunderstand me. Tell me nothing — I ask nothing — which has any reference to ‘worldliness’ or the ‘fear of the world’. Tell me only of the ties — if any exist — that bind you to the world: — and yet I perceive that I may have done very wrong in asking you this: — now that I have asked it, it seems to me the maddest of questions, involving, possibly, the most visionary of hopes. (over[) ]

I have seen much that you have written, but “now that I know you” I have a deep curiosity to see all. Can I procure in N. York the volume of poems to which you refer in your second letter?

A Critical and Biographical Memoir of myself appeared in “Graham’s Mag:” for Feb. 45 — also one in the “Phil. Sat’ Museum” the year previous: — one also in the “Boston Notion” I forget exactly when: — and one also in the last January number of the “South. Liter’ Messenger”. The only portrait, I believe, was in “Graham”. I have no copy & have made several ineffectual efforts to get one. I do not think the portrait would be recognized.

Truly — most truly yours always,

E A P.

Jane Ermina Locke to Edgar Allan Poe — August 1848

( . . . . )

I hope you will acknowledge the receipt of this immediately, tho’ more than this I shall not entreat of you, leving (leaving) all to your own discretion and feelings, mine are written out, and you cannot mistake them; therefore you can judge of the safety of any thing you may say to me, or of the manner in which it will be received. But the courtesy due, if you do not believe my heart — I beg you will not deny me, that I may know you have received this. — Have these given you even greater sympathy than I now feel. —

Yrs. as ever

Jane. E. Locke

Ermina’s Tale.

There fell upon my soul a wildering dream,

No, not a dream, but strange reality;

So wild, so sweet so trance — like did it seem,

I feared to start, lest all should change and flee.

It came — at the dense heat of noon — a shade —

A twilight shade — a gorgeous rose-wreathed bower;

Where flashing to the light a fountain played,

And cast in sparkling mist a fairy shower.

I had grown faint and weary with the day,

And heat and dust and travel sweltered me;

My soul was lonely in the crowded way,

And my cheek ap led the homaged breath to free.

Within my heart of hearts there had awoke

A void, long since, YET NONE DIVINED THERE;

A weary void, that when each orient broke,

Filled with strange music set to songs in air!

Here broke the vision — lovely shade and bower,

And leaping fount; — lingering I cast my care,

For to my soul a strange and mighty power,

Soft and beguiling words seemed whispering there!

The air felt laden with the breath of myrrh,

And strains of music, as the fabled notes

Of dying swans, made every leaflet stir, —

And rippled the bright fount with fairy boats.

Then forth there came to my enraptured sight, —

From whence I know not — how — or why it came —

A mortal form! — immortal — veiled! — in light

That well nigh had consumed my heart; its flame,

The flame that wrapt its glory blazed around,

As altars blaze with hallowed incense; air,

And sky, and earth, and all that crowned,

Gave back the gorgeousness, and odor there.

Around his brow there twined a serpent wreath, —

And to his fingers swayed harp strings of fire,

That swelled forlornest strains, burthening the breath

Of air, to memories of uncrowned desire.

It seemed, the wild refrain of my soul’s void

That echoed back in deeper melody;

Full-voiced but sweeter far joined cadenced word,

Answering its longings strange, in consonant measures free.

I felt as in the presence of a god!

My heart awe-struck sent up a censer flame

With fingers clasped; flower burthened was the sod,

And there