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I know I have not written for shamefully long, and my heart troubles me about it. It is always the same—if once I don't write—I fall into this dismal silence—and am nothing but a sorry wretch—the most graceless friend alive. Your exquisite letter made me feel the horror I am. And this weather, these first thrilling days of real spring always bring you before me so vividly. I know you love them as I do; I know you have the same Horror of that endless winter—over at last. Will you come and see me when you are in town again? There are so many things I long to talk over with you. So much seems to have happened and changed—I suppose it hasn't really. It is only the lifting of that appalling cold, dark wing that has hidden everything for what feels to me—an eternity—I really can hardly remember what happened before the winter. But I must not speak of it. The trees are trees again and one can face the light without shuddering. Garsington must be very lovely just now and your garden. It has been a miracle to watch the roots and bulbs buried by M. last October burst out of their little graves and put on beauty—rather meagre London beauty—but reinforced by nine immense dandelions, the garden, is, to a kind eye—quite gay—

M. and I seem to work like niggers at The Athenæum—I wonder if you really like it. I feel rather like the pink icing butterfly on the dark sumptuous tragic cake—Very unworthy. I thought the first numbers were too depressed but it is sitting up and taking more exciting nourishment now I think. It is great fun. We both enjoy it. It's such a funny company to be sitting at Athene's tea board—But I do wish the other guests would arrive—the gay, unexpected ones.

O this Spring—It makes me long for happiness. That is so vague. Each year I think—this year I shall not feel it so keenly—but I feel it more. Why are human beings the only ones who do not put forth fresh buds—exquisite page 231 flowers and leaves? I cannot bear to go among them. I sit here or take small walks and there seems a blessing fallen upon the world just as long as one does not see the people or know of their ways. We have all been wintry far too long—Really, on some of these days one is tired with bliss. I long to tell someone—to feel it immediately shared—felt without my asking “do you feel it?”—Do you know what I mean?