I Would Rather Fight With My Hands

Disaffection Stalks Around Us.

And Now, Dear Sister, I Must Leave This House Or The Retreating Army Will Make Me A Prisoner In It By Filling Up The Road I Am Directed To Take.

Two Messengers Covered With Dust Come To Bid Me Fly, But I Wait For Him.

When I Shall Again Write To You, Or Where I Shall Be Tomorrow, I Cannot Tell.

You May Imagine Me The Very Shadow Of My Husband.