Coleridge, it may convince you of my regards for you when I tell you my
head ran on you in my madness, as much almost as on another Person, who
I am inclined to think was the more immediate cause of my temporary
frenzy.

The sonnet I send you has small merit as poetry but you will be curious
to read it when I tell you it was written in my prison-house in one of
my lucid Intervals.

TO MY SISTER

If from my lips some angry accents fell,
Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind,
'Twas but the error of a sickly mind,
And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well,
And waters clear, of Reason; and for me,
Let this my verse the poor atonement be,
My verse, which thou to praise wast ever inclined
Too highly, and with a partial eye to see
No blemish: thou to me didst ever shew
Fondest affection, and woud'st oftimes lend
An ear to the desponding love sick lay,
Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay
But ill the mighty debt of love I owe,
Mary, to thee, my sister and my friend.

With these lines, and with that sister's kindest remembrances to C----,
I conclude--