My Dear Winter: I have been reading the poem again, & am pushed by some force stronger than desire or inclination, to write a word & thank you personally for doing it. It is a master-work; it does not seem to have a flaw in it anywhere: it to me it is perfect. I would give anything if I could read it to my wife—as I do with all things that seem perfect to me—but in each verse there is a rock upon which my voice would be wrecked—I do not see how you ever read it without breaking down. The rhythm, the music, the pathos, the affection, the noble eloquence—it is so filled with these, from the first line to the last, that it moves me out of all self-control. I saw it was great, that night, but it is greater still, now, for although I drew up near you I lost many words.