wide Literary Madness, the Star of this Poet had risen—
risen before, and still shines beyond, and above them all.
The hand which wrote "Goodbye, Jim"—not classical
in either Greek or Roman sense, yet a great
American Classic—with its pungent odor of Blue Jeans, with
its clean, sweet, clear-cut, fine smell, of its native soil—
that hand may never again hold the Pen; the man
himself, may crumble—God forbid!—back into the Dust—
that "Little Dust of Harm"—out of which he came;
but his Poems will not, cannot die.