The admirable letter of Donald G. Mitchell (the famous Ik Marvel), closed in these words:
“There is not one of you who has a truer relish for the charming ways in which that favorite poet can twist our good mother-English into resonant shapes of verse. I pray you to tell him so, and that only the weakness of age—quickened by this wintry March—keeps me from putting in an ‘Adsum,’ at the roll-call of your guests.”
The “Hoosier Poet” sent these lines to represent him:
O princely poet! kingly heir
Of gifts divinely sent—
Your own—nor envy anywhere,
Nor voice of discontent.
Though, of ourselves, all poor are we,
And frail and weak of wing,
Your height is ours—your ecstasy,