To
William Dean Howells
1? October 1880 • Hartford, Conn. (MS, possibly not sent, with an undated note
to Susan L. Crane: CU-MARK, UCCL 12507 and 12508)
1? October 1880 • Hartford, Conn. (MS, possibly not sent, with an undated note
to Susan L. Crane: CU-MARK, UCCL 12507 and 12508)
written in brown ink, on the
outside as folded, of an MS consisting of 2 leaves:
Dear Howells—
We came through all right, & Mrs. C begins to show improvement already.
S
Mark.
written below the note to
Howells, in purple ink:
Here it is, Susie dear.
S L C
written in brown ink on the
rectos of the 2 MS leaves:
For the Atlantic Monthly.
Poetry department.
Love Song.
I ask not, “Is thy faith hope still sure, Thy love still warm, thy faith secure?” I ask not, “Dream’st thou still of me?— Longest alway to fly to me?”— Ah, no—but as the sum includeth all The G good gifts of the Giver, I sum all these in asking thee, “O sweetheart, how’s your liver?”
For if thy liver worketh right, Thy faith stands sure, thy hope is bright, Thy dreams are sweet, and I their god, Doubt threats in vain—thou scorn’st his rod. Keep only thy digestion clear, No other foe my love doth fear.
But Indigestion hath the power To mar the soul’s serenest hour— To crumble adamantine trust, And turn its certainties to dust— To dim the eye with nameless grief— To chill the heart with unbelief— To banish hope, & faith, & love, Place heaven below & hell above. Then list—details are naught to me So thou’st the sum-gift of the Giver— I ask thee all in asking thee, “O darling, how’s your liver?”
For the Atlantic Monthly.
Poetry department.
Love Song.
I ask not, “Is thy faith hope still sure, Thy love still warm, thy faith secure?” I ask not, “Dream’st thou still of me?— Longest alway to fly to me?”— Ah, no—but as the sum includeth all The G good gifts of the Giver, I sum all these in asking thee, “O sweetheart, how’s your liver?”
For if thy liver worketh right, Thy faith stands sure, thy hope is bright, Thy dreams are sweet, and I their god, Doubt threats in vain—thou scorn’st his rod. Keep only thy digestion clear, No other foe my love doth fear.
But Indigestion hath the power To mar the soul’s serenest hour— To crumble adamantine trust, And turn its certainties to dust— To dim the eye with nameless grief— To chill the heart with unbelief— To banish hope, & faith, & love, Place heaven below & hell above. Then list—details are naught to me So thou’st the sum-gift of the Giver— I ask thee all in asking thee, “O darling, how’s your liver?”
Mark Twain
MS, possibly not sent, with an undated note to Susan L. Crane, CU-MARK.
Lillard 1895, 44, partial publication; Brownell 1944, 5–6, partial publication; MTHL , 2:857, partial publication; Neider 1961, partial publication; Scott 1966, 103, partial publication; MicroPUL, reel 1.
See Mark Twain Papers in Description of Provenanceclick to open letter.