her making. If there is none, the effort was, at least, to reach
higher than my grasp--because of her. A writer is--and it is the
ancient curse!--an egotist. But it is not my grief that I wish to
display here. The human heart can fortunately never be put on paper.
Only--reality assures of reality.

Poetry is unconscionable because it follows true conscience. I knew,
in her, that conscience,--and know it in these fantastic shadows cast
by her light. If you do also, be assured that the light still shines--
forever.

New York City,
March 25, 1919.




BEFORE


THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER

Love, the wild fowler, spreads his nets with care,
And deep-toned warning both our hearts have heard,
Even as the old-time low-bell held each bird
Suddenly trembling, nestling pair by pair
Dark in the covert, till a blinding glare
Of torchlight and a clamorous shouted word
Dazed their bright eyes, and terrified wings upwhirred
To baffled blundering in the close-drawn snare.