I send the poems with suggestions. There's naught to say about 'em that I've not said of your other work. Your "growth in grace" (and other poetic qualities) is something wonderful. You are leaving my other "pupils" so far behind that they are no longer "in it." Seriously, you "promise" better than any of the new men in our literature—and perform better than all but Markham in his lucid intervals, alas, too rare.
Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.
Washington,
May 22,
1901.
My dear Sterling,
I enclose a proof of the poem[3]—all marked up. The poem was offered to the Journal, but to the wrong editor. I would not offer it to him in whose department it could be used, for he once turned down some admirable verses of my friend Scheffauer which I sent him. I'm glad the Journal is not to have it, for it now goes into the Washington Post—and the Post into the best houses here and elsewhere—a good, clean, unyellow paper. I'll send you some copies with the poem.
I think my marks are intelligible—I mean my remarks. Perhaps you'll not approve all, or anything, that I did to the poem; I'll only ask you to endure. When you publish in covers you can restore to the original draft if you like. I had not time (after my return from New York) to get your approval and did the best and the least I could.
* * *
My love to your pretty wife and sister. Let me know how hard you hate me for monkeying with your sacred lines.
Sincerely yours, Ambrose Bierce.