And he would not have been welcomed with open arms, I think! And he wouldn't have been set free—consecrated soul that he was. And sensitive, nervous, fragile, hysterical boy—do you think he would ever have written his poems, that he would ever have uttered his message?
I have to make somebody understand this thing, somehow. I suggest that you think what that would have meant to you—to you who love poetry. Think that you would never have read:
Oh wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn's being!...
Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud,
I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed!
Think that you would never have read:
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know!
That you would never have read:
On a poet's lips I slept!
I repeat that I have to make somebody understand this thing. I try that plan a little more. Listen to me now—think what it would have meant if that wise friend had not died when he did; think that you would never have read:
And then my heart with rapture fills,
And dances with the daffodils!
Think that you would never have read: