A woman sits alone at night with a letter she has written to her absent lover. Looking at the cramped handwriting, she feels how useless it is: those scratchy little marks cannot convey the huge flaring moon, the oak leaves, the bare floor spattered with moonlight, or the blossoming hawthorns. The paper itself seems lifeless under her hand. She is exhausted by trying to press her longing into tiny ink drops and mail them away. What she really wants is the beloved’s presence. Instead, she burns alone beneath the moon’s gaze. The mood is restless, sensuous, and aching—full of springtime beauty that only sharpens her loneliness. The poem captures the gap between lived emotion and the small, inadequate words we send in its place.
The Letter — Summary
Little cramped words scrawling all over the paper Like draggled fly's legs, What can you tell of the flaring moon Through the oak leaves ? Or of my uncurtained window and the bare floor Spattered with moonlight ? Your silly quirks and twists have nothing in them Of blossoming hawthorns. And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth, virgin of loveliness Beneath my hand. I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you ; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it. And I scald alone, here, under the fire Of the great moon.