Sprinkled with those same stars that twinkled
Bright on that blessed Christmas night
When angels sang good-will to men ...
Sore is my heart unto the core!
Sick is my soul unto the quick!
Sick is my soul ... my soul ... how sick!
I hope that you will publish this poem and letter in the interest of Poetic Art, and in order that the world may know that we poets of America are almost, if not quite, as progressive as those of France.
I am, Sir,
Anna Pest.