I hardly know what to say about that poem, Stilly. It's touched me, touched me deeply. Having read it my life was completed and all other poetry and prose have, like an insubstantial pageant, faded and left not a rack behind. Other poetry, like gorgeous palaces and cloud-capped towers, have faded into air, into thing air. I know now that they were but such things as dreams were made of and their little life were rounded with a sleep.