Unforeseen circumstances have prevented my writing to you before this, and even now I must perforce be more brief than I would fain be in response to your long and deeply interesting as well as generous letter. Alas, a long pencilled note (partly apropos of your vision of the woman shooting arrows, and of the strange coincidence of something of the same kind on my own part) has long since been devoured by a too voracious or too trustful gull—for a sudden gust of wind blew the quarto-sheet from off the deck of the small yacht wherein I and my dear friend and confrère of whom you know were sailing, off Skye.... How good of you to write to me as you did. Believe me, I am grateful. There is no other writer whose good opinion could please me more—for I love your work, and take an endless delight in your poetry, and look to you as not only one of the rare few on whose lips is the honey of Magh Mell but as one the dark zone of whose mind is lit with the strange stars and constellations of the spiritual life. Most cordially I thank you for your critical remarks. Even where I do not unreservedly agree, or where I venture to differ (as for example, in the matter of the repetition of the titular words in “The Washer of the Ford” poem) I have carefully pondered all you say. I am particularly glad you feel about the “Annir Choille” as you do. Some people whom I would like to please do not care for it: yet I am sure you are right in considering it one of the most vital things I have been able to do.
With what delight I have read your lovely lovely poem “O’Sullivan Rue to the Secret Rose!” I have read it over and over with ever deepening delight. It is one of your finest poems, I think: though perhaps it can only be truly appreciated by those who are familiar with legendary Celtic history. We read it to each other, my friend and I, on a wonderful sundown “when evening fed the wave with quiet light,” off one of the Inner Hebrides (Colonsay, to the South of Oban).... I cannot quite make up my mind, as you ask, about your two styles. Personally, I incline not exactly to a return to the earlier but to a marriage of the two: that is, a little less remoteness, or subtlety, with a little more of rippling clarity. After reading your Blake paper (and with vivid interest and delight) I turned to an early work of yours which I value highly, Dhoya: and I admit that my heart moved to it. Between them lies, I think, your surest and finest line of work—with the light deft craft of The Celtic Twilight.
I hope you are soon going to issue the promised volume of poems. When my own book of verse is ready—it is to be called From the Hills of Dream—it will give me such sincere pleasure to send you a copy. By the bye, I must not forget to thank you for introducing my work to Mr. Arthur Symons. He wrote to me a pleasant letter, and asked me to contribute to the Savoy, which I have done. I dare say my friend (who sends you comradely greetings, and says he will write in a day or two) will tell you more from me when he and you meet.
I had a strange vision the other day, wherein I saw the figure of a gigantic woman sleeping on the green hills of Ireland. As I watched, the sun waned and the dark came and the stars began to fall. They fell one by one, and each fell into the woman—and lo, of a sudden, all was bare running water, and the drowned stars and the transmuted woman passed from my seeing. This was a waking dream, an open vision: but I do not know what it means, though it was so wonderfully vivid. In a vague way I realise that something of tremendous moment is being matured just now. We are on the verge of vitally important developments. And all the heart, all the brain, of the Celtic races shall be stirred. There is a shadow of mighty changes. Myself, I believe that new spirits have been embodied among us. And some of the old have come back. We shall perish, you and I and all who fight under the “Lifting of the Sunbeam”—but we shall pioneer a wonderful marvellous new life for humanity. The other day I asked an old islesman where her son was buried. “He was not buried,” she said, “for all they buried his body. For a week ago I saw him lying on the heather, and talking swift an’ wild with a Shadow.” The Shadows are here.
I must not write more just now.
My cordial greetings to you,
Sincerely,
Fiona Macleod.
No sooner had W. S. returned to London than he fell ill with nervous prostration, and rheumatism. It was soon obvious that he could not remain in town, and that for a short time at any rate he must cease from pen-work. It therefore seemed an opportune moment for him to go to New York, and attend to his publishing interests there, especially as Messrs. Stone & Kimball had recently failed.
Before starting he had read and reviewed with much interest a volume of poems by the American poet, Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard, and had received a pleased acknowledgment from her husband Richard A. Stoddard: