If only I weren’t a writer, perhaps I could
thank you and praise you and admire you simply and expressively and say in one
word what I felt about the concert yesterday.
As it is, an image forms in my mind; a quickset briar hedge, innumerably
spikey and thorned; in the centre burns a rose.
Miraculously the rose is you; flushed pink, wearing pearls. The thorn hedge is the music; and I have to
break my way through violins, flutes, cymbals, voices to this red burning
centre. Letter to Ethel Smyth
May 26, 1930 (L4, 171)
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