Dear Friend,
… You failed to keep your appointment with the apple blossoms–the japonica, even, bore an apple to elicit you, but that must be a silver bell which calls the human heart. I still hope that you live, and in lands of consciousness. It is Commencement now. Pathos is very busy. The past is not a package one can lay away. I see my father’s eyes, and those of Mr. Bowles–those isolated comets. If the future is mighty as the past, what may vista be? With my foot in a sling from a vicious sprain, and reminded of you, almost to tears by the week and its witness, I send this sombre word. The vane defines the wind. Where we though you were, Austin says you are not. How strange to change one’s sky, unless one’s star goes with it, but yours has left an astral wake.
— Emily Dickinson