Monica Walter

A won­derful sere­ni­ty has taken pos­ses­si­on of my enti­re soul, like the­se sweet mor­nings of spring which I enjoy with my who­le heart. I am alo­ne, and feel the charm of exis­tence in this spot, which was crea­ted for the bliss of souls like mine.

I am so hap­py, my dear fri­end, so absor­bed in the exqui­si­te sen­se of mere tran­quil exis­tence, that I negle­ct my talents. I should be inca­pa­ble of dra­wing a sin­gle stro­ke at the pre­sent moment; and yet I feel that I never was a grea­ter artist than now. When, while the love­ly val­ley teems with vapour around me, and the meri­di­an sun strikes the upper sur­face of the impene­tra­ble folia­ge of my trees, and but a few stray gleams ste­al into the inner sanc­tua­ry. I throw mys­elf down among the tall grass by the trick­ling stream; and, as I lie clo­se to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noti­ced by me: when I hear the buzz of the litt­le world among the stalks, and grow fami­li­ar with the count­less inde­scri­ba­ble forms of the insects and flies, then I feel the pre­sence of the Almigh­ty, who for­med us in his own image.

Like the form of a bel­oved mistress, then I often think with lon­ging, Oh, would I could descri­be the­se con­cep­ti­ons, could impress upon paper all that is living so full and warm within me, that it might be the mir­ror of my soul, as my soul is the mir­ror of the infi­ni­te God!