March 11th.
I tremble with excitement all the day, dreaming about that thing. I go about half-mad. “Oh, just think of it,” I whisper, “just think of it!”
I linger about it hungrily! He spoke as if he really meant to make them take it.
March 13th.
I went to see him to-day to ask. No, they had not let him know yet, but they had the manuscript. He would write me.
I made up my mind that I would not bother him again. I will wait, hard as it is.
I sat asking myself to-day, “Do you really mean that you believe that poem is going to stir the world—this huge, heedless world you see about you? Have you truly that blind, unreasoning faith that you try to persuade yourself you have?”