* * * *
*
I am writing on the train. I write commonplaces.
That is because I can not shout.
But back there, coming out of the woods, I shouted—and
not commonplaces either!
Coming out of the forest—forest-drunk!
Now I know all about Pan and his creatures!
* * * *
*
I write carelessly. But in my heart I sit shuddering
before that fearful glory. O God, my Father,
let me not forget this awful week, and I will live
in Truth all my days.
* * * *
*
July 7th. [Footnote: Possibly an error in the
date, as the day was Sunday.]
Wandering all day about the streets of the hot city,
seeing it not, hearing it not—waiting for
the last lines of the poem to be copied! I could
not do anything until that was done, and at a publisher’s.
I got it and fled home, and spent the night correcting
the copy.
Ah, God, what a thing it is! How it roars, how
it thunders, how it surges! How infinite, how
terrible! Stern, throbbing—is there
anything like it in the world?
* * * *
*
Ten lines of it make my blood tingle—an
act of it makes me bury my face in my pillow and laugh
and sob for five minutes.
* * * *
*
Go forth, oh my perfect song!
SEEKING A PUBLISHER
July 8th.
To-day I took it to the publisher’s!
* * * *
*
I had been pondering for a week who were the best
publishers. To-day I hardly had the courage to
go in—I know nothing about such things—and
my hands shook so I could hardly hold the package.
* * * *
*
I asked to see the manager. I told him I had
a manuscript to submit. He looked at me—I
guess I must look rather seedy. “What sort
of a manuscript?” he asked. “A blank
verse drama!”
Then he took it and glanced over it. “Blank
verse dramas are difficult things to publish,”
he said.
“You had best read it, I think,” I answered,
“you will find it worth while.”
“Very well, if you wish,” said he, “we
always read everything that is offered to us.”
“How soon shall you be able to let me know?”
“Oh, in a week or ten days.”
* * * *
*
And then I went out—shuddering with excitement.
A week or ten days!
Well—I can wait. I have done all my
duty, at any rate.
* * * *
*
July 9th.
I have certainly played a bold game with my poem!
At the publisher’s at last—and I,
having paid my room-rent, have just a dollar in my
pocket!
* * * *
*
I have been tramping about all day to-day, looking
for some work. I don’t care what it is—I
can do anything to keep alive for a week or ten days.—I
wonder if they will advance me some money at once.
