* * * * *
"You made a hit," commented Ally, as he conducted me back to his house,
"it's a great opening for you. Follow it up!"
"I will!"
* * * * *
That night I could not sleep. My blood made a tumult through my body.
Before dawn I had written two poems on national themes; didactic verses,
each with a moral of democracy tagged to it, and much about the worth of
simplicity in it, and the dignity of honest labour.
Yes, I would be their poet. And America's poet....
And visions of a comfortable, bourgeois success took me ... interminable
Chautauquas, with rows of women listening to my inspiring verses ...
visits as honoured guest to the homes of great popular leaders like
Roosevelt ... dignity and rides in parlour cars, instead of dusty, dirty
box cars ... interviews of weight and speeches of consequence ... and
the newspapers would drop their undercurrent of levity when I was
written about in them, and treat me with consideration.
Finally, I would possess a home like Mackworth's, set back amid shade
trees, a house not too large, not too small ... a cook and maid ... a
pretty, unobtrusive wife devoted to me....
And I would wear white linen collars every day, tie the ends of my tie
even ... and each year would see a new book of mine out, published by
some bookseller of repute .
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