I can picture it to the last, and what a way to enter the world! Chosen sister of the spirit, as Shelley says – what a blessing to be born under. Born in the wild – well, almost – and under the moonlight. Very Artemis of her.

I would have sent you The Moon was but a Chin of Gold – Emily Dickinson, do you know it? – along with this letter to salute Juliet, but I have found myself with a confession to make instead. Your mention of sleepwalking struck something in me, and I fear I am using the notion of it in a new work of my own. I suppose you do not mind?

The poem is coming along well, I think – writing poetry is much like bearing a child, I suppose; there is as much pain and monstrous horror in it – so I may share a little of it with you soon, if you care to hear it.

Otherwise – next time you cannot sleep or wake from sleepwalking, you must use the mirror so you can tell me of it.

Forgiveness is not much in my nature, but for you it seems I have

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