Spitball Army

March 25, 1943
Thurs noon
2nd part – letter

Here I am again, Sweet –

Still love you too –

Audrey gave her notice to quit at the Bank; so she’s serious about going to New York & being with Don for awhile.  Hopes to find other work when she gets back.

Rec’d my card from the Red Cross today stating that I had been selected by the committee for their Staff Assistance Corps.  Their course of training begins next Tues – Mar. 30 at 10 a.m.  So will be busy with that for the next months – Red Cross wants June as a Nurses’ Aide – Have been thinking about donating some blood for the Red Cross.  Seems like it’s really the least we at home can do.

I did appreciate your telegram so much & am so very anxious to hear more.  Bought some new piano music yesterday.  Dad gave it to me for the anniversary.

Yes, Darling, I miss you all day long but mostly when day is done, for to me that’s always the most lonely part of the day – I have such a yearning for you to hold me closely – I used to love the nights with you by my side.  But some day, we’ll be together again & how wonderful it will be!  You’re dearer than dear to me.  Remember this?

“My heart to thy heart
My lips to thine
In the dew of the cornfield
The blood of the vine
The last sigh at leaving
The word as we part
Is, my lips to thy lips
We two, heart to heart”*

I need you, Darling, every moment.  My thoughts are with you always.

I love you,
Bev

* This poem is entitled “Lines on a Loving Cup” and was written by author and poet Charles Warren Stoddard (1843-1909). The poem has startling similarities to a poem entitled “Song” [text shown below] written by African-American poet Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906), though it should be noted that Stoddard’s poetry was mostly published in a collected volume in 1867, prior to Dunbar’s birth.

My heart to thy heart, my hand to thine;
My lip to thy lips, kisses are wine
Brewed for the lover in sunshine and shade;
Let me drink deep, then, my African maid.
Lily to lily, rose unto rose;
My love to thy love tenderly grows.
Rend not the oak and the ivy in twain,
Nor the swart maid from her swarthier swain.