2024 Spruce Street,
Philadelphia.
Dear Mr. Wilder:—
Recalling the many kindnesses for which I am indebted to you, you will be tempted to imagine that with me "out of sight is out of mind"; but so far is this from being the case that, because I have not been able to write, you have been in my thoughts a great part of the time. That, however, is not the only reason I have thought of you, for your book has been before me, and though I can read little at a time, owing to my blindness, I have constantly been charmed by new and eloquent lines.
You have, in my opinion, a fine gift of poetry and a noble command of our noble mother-tongue,—so misprized and misused in these days. Because I think you should go far, will you forgive a tiny criticism and suggestion?
While remembering that poetry should be sensuous and impassioned, "gnomic and divinely wise", do not forget that it should also be simple, and deny yourself the privilege of too many rare and aristocratic words.
How lovely are your lines to C. B. and Others! "God's high economy of pain".—The entire poem is saturated with beauty and genuine feeling, so that it brings the tears. But—dare I ask?—should it end with so large a word as "Transcendentalists?
I love the "Bruges" poems and the "Forêt de Soignes". But you have been patient and I must not go on or I shall weary you. Thanking you for all
