July 7th. [Footnote: Possibly an error in the date, as the day was Sunday.]
Wandering all day about the streets of the hot city, seeing it not, hearing it not—waiting for the last lines of the poem to be copied! I could not do anything until that was done, and at a publisher's. I got it and fled home, and spent the night correcting the copy.
Ah, God, what a thing it is! How it roars, how it thunders, how it surges! How infinite, how terrible! Stern, throbbing—is there anything like it in the world?
Ten lines of it make my blood tingle—an act of it makes me bury my face in my pillow and laugh and sob for five minutes.
Go forth, oh my perfect song!