Well,
people have tried. Byron wrote letters. So did Cowper. For centuries the
writing-desk has contained sheets fit precisely for the communications of friends.
Masters of language, poets of long ages, have turned from the sheet that
endures to the sheet that perishes, pushing aside the tea-tray, drawing close
to the fire (for letters are written when the dark presses round a bright red
cave), and addressed themselves to the task of reaching, touching, penetrating
the individual heart. Were it possible! But words have been used too often;
touched and turned, and left exposed to the dust of the street. The words we
seek hang close to the tree. We come at dawn and find them sweet beneath the leaf.
Jacob's Room (97)
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