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August 1st 1804 All joy passes like the idle wind--but believe me the idle Wind I whisper is like the desolate blasts that whistle thro' the fragments of some ruin, --I am myself that ruin August the 4th I am going away, I shall hear nothing of you satisfactory, --if the tidings are good, they may have ceased to be true before I receive them; --if bad the Evil may be redressed, or past redress before they reach me; --my heart, my mind, memory & hope [[underline]] all all [[/underline]] repose on you; I cannot but lament that chaos of unfinished woe which yet hovers over my head.-- If unmeasurable, inextinguishable love, --& Even a blasphemous devotion of Soul--where Soul is not due
