I must get this thing typewritten—I must get rid of it—it must be published. How long does it take to get a book published?
July 5th.
I fought a fight with myself yesterday, and won it. The last of my weaknesses! I wanted to pack up my things and go home! And finish my poem on the train! I was that hungry for the goal! But I am still here—doing the last scene. I shall stay until it is done. I can not stay after that.
Let me hear how your voice trembles as you sing the last strains of your song, and I will tell you how great an artist you are.
Good night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
July 6th.
Five in the afternoon! And the wind was howling in turret and tree, and all the forest was an organ chant. So I packed up my belongings, and laid my poem in next to my heart—the last words written: “It is done!”