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Father,
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Although you are
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not here to read
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I write to think
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to tell afresh
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when we rejoin some day.
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I have achieved
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a partial
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ascent toward heaven
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from the Battery below Wall Street in
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Thaddeus Lowe's silk rope enmeshed balloon.
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For ten dollars of gold a flight aloft
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a full one thousand feet
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albeit tethered to the Earth.
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A capstan
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reeling let us rise. Horseflesh
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winched us down again.
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But, Father, oh, Father! What a height!
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As like half-way there to you it seemed
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if I imagine rightly.
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Myself and Mr. Lowe—such grins. The sounds
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of life below—clarion and well
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heard: "Say halloo to God for us"
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some waggish man—his hollow
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thought aroused my soul to plea
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to beg of Charity for Brother
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for your son. I near resounded
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"Willst thou forgive?"
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Alas, I checked myself—I choked.
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For dear Father I knew not
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which way to shout
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May 22, 1866.
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