You are very attentive to Henry’s bequest in sending me, by fit hands, the rare and wise books, which in his last thoughtful hours, he deemed his friend worth inheriting. As every thought of his was a virtue, I shall prize these books the more on his account, and think tenderly of the giver whenever I open them. These volumes are from his choice library. They came to him honorably and are only older in time, but not in wisdom than his own writings. That he has left so much of his essence behind him: of his life, which he said

    —“has been the poem I could have writ,
    But I could not both live and utter it”

is a great happiness to his friends, and partly compensates for his laying aside his sun so soon. None living, had a better right to hold it. Nor do I think of contemporary who accomplished so much in so short a time as he has, whether we regard the weight of matter, or wealth of thought. We may be sure of his being read an prized by coming times, and the place and time pertaining to him will be forever and sweeter for his presence. For as flowers which are cut down with the morning dew upon them, do, for a long while after, retain their fragrancy, so the good actions of a wise man perfume his mind and leave a rich scent behind them; so that his memory is, as it were, watered with these essences, and owes it flourishing to them.

  Though I address this note to the mother, the sister is in my thoughts, also, as I write.

For Henry’s sake,

as for yours,

your obliged friend.
A. Bronson Alcott