I could hardly stand up this afternoon! but the thing was ringing in my ears--it went on and on--I had to go after it! I was in the seventh heaven--I could see anything, dare anything, do anything. It made no difference how hard--it called to me--on--on! And I said: “Suppose I were to be tortured--could I go then?” And so I went and went. I haven't written it down yet; I felt sick. But I know it all. Oh men--oh my brothers--will you love me for this thing? * * * * * May 16th. I did no writing yesterday or to-day. I have been terribly frightened. I wrote what I had to write the day before yesterday--I could not help it. But when I stopped my head was literally on fire, and the strangest mad throbbing in it--I stood still in fear, it felt so as if something were going to burst--my head seemed to weigh a ton. I poured cold water over it, but it made no difference--it stayed that way all night and all yesterday. What am I to do? I dare not think--I took a long walk, and even now I find myself thinking of the book without knowing it. Imagine me sitting on a doorstep and playing for two hours with a kitten! Why should I be handicapped in such a way as this? I had never thought of such a thing. * * * * * I was thinking about The Captive--it is my own. Nobody has helped me--I have told not one person of it. Everything in it has come out of my soul. * * * * * May 17th. I feel better to-day, but I hardly know what to do. Meantime I was happy!--Think of a poet's being happy with city flowers! of a poet's being happy with store-flowers--prostitute-flowers--flowers for sale! It was all about a narcissus--“Very flower of youth, and morning's golden hour!”--as I called it once. And it danced so! (It was out on the curbstone)--and I went off happy. Then I thought of a poem that is pure distilled ecstasy to my spirit. I will write it, and be happy again: Sit thee by the ingle, when The sear faggot blazes bright; Spirit of a winter's night!-- ... Sit thee there, and send abroad, With a mind self-overaw'd, Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her! She has vassals to attend her; She will bring, in spite of frost, Beauties that the earth hath lost; She will bring thee, all together, All delights of summer weather; All the buds and bells of May, From dewy sward or thorny spray; All the heaped Autumn's wealth, With a still, mysterious stealth; She will mix those pleasures up, Like three fit wines in a cup, And thou shall quaff it!-- Ah! And so I went along, “sun, moon, and stars forgot”--laughing and half dancing. People stared at me--and I laughed. And then I passed three pretty girls, and I laughed, and they laughed too. I guess they thought I was going to follow them. --But that pleasure was not in my cup, dear girls. * * * * *