.. he was jerking about,
in his anger, like a dancing mouse....
I hurried out of his word-range, overwhelmed with greater shame than I
can ever say.
* * * * *
The editor of the _Independent_, Dr. William Hayes Ward, had, so far,
not found room in his magazine for the two poems of mine he had bought.
I was chagrined, and wrote him, rather impetuously, that, if he didn't
care for the poems he might return them. Which he did, with a rather
frigid and offended reply. I was rendered unhappy by this.
I spoke to Spalton about it.
"Why Razorre, so you _have_ come that near to being in print?" I showed
him the poems. "Yes, you have the making of a real poet in you!"
A day or so after he approached me with--"I'm writing a brief visit to
the home of Thoreau ... how would you like to compose a poem for me, on
him--for the first page of the work?"
"I would like it very much," I said. In a few days I handed him the
poem. A "sonnet," the form of which I myself had invented, in fifteen
lines.
* * * * *
For days I lived in an intoxication of anticipation ... just to have one
poem printed, I was certain, would mean my immediate fame ... so
thoroughly did I believe in my genius. I was sure that instantly all of
the publishers in the world would contend with each other for the
privilege of bringing out my books.
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