Dearest Emily,
Easter seems a long way off, which is when I next expect to see you and Annabel- even though the Supermarkets would have us think we all need creme eggs
right now.
So, here today I send you a scary ghost picture and this poem that Lewis Carroll penned for a friend who complained that he
was glad enough to see him when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.
And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
With anguish smarting?
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
And must I then, at Friendship's call,
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?
I have of gladness,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
And think you that I should be dumb,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?
And full DOLORUM OMNIUM,
And daily thinner?
Excepting when YOU choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
At night-time languish,
Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep
By day a lonely shadow creep,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?
The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
And posts them to her.
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
When thirteen days are gone and past
The post shall carry,
Of February.
Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps to-morrow.
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
I trust to find YOUR heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.
See you both soon,
your ever-loving Grandmother, GiGi XXX
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