I must finish this thing this time! That cry rings in my ears night after night. I am toiling upward--upward--I can see no sign of the end yet--but I must finish this time! If I had to stop with this thing haunting me--if I had to go out into that jungle of a world with this weight upon me--to repress myself with this fire in my heart--I could not bear it--I could not bear it! And if I stopped and went out into that world again--how many weeks of agony would it cost me to get back to where I am now! I must finish this time! * * * * * May 22d. “No, officer, I am neither a burglar nor a highwayman, nor anything else worth bothering; I'm just a poet, and I'm crazy, to all practical purposes, so please get used to me and let me wander about the streets at these strange hours of the night without worrying!” Poor, perplexed policeman! Poor, perplexed world! Poor, perplexed mothers and fathers, sisters and cousins and aunts of poets! Mit deinen schwarzbraunen Augen Siehst du mich forschend an: “Wer bist du, und was fehlt dir, Du fremder, kranker Mann!” Who does not love the poet Heine--melodious, beautiful, bitter soul? Is there any other poet who can mingle, in one sentence, savage irony and tenderness that brings tears into the eyes? Who can tell the secret of his flower-like verses? Ich bin ein deutscher Dichter, Bekannt im deutschen Land; Nennt man die besten Namen So wird auch der meine genannt. Und was mir fehlt, du Kleine, Fehlt manchem im deutschen Land; Nennt man die schlimmsten Schmerzen, So wird auch die meine genannt! I have never seen but one beautiful thing in New York, and that is its mighty river in the night-time. I wander down to the docks when my work is done, and when it is still; I sit and gaze at it until the city is quite gone, and all its restlessness,--until there is but that grave presence, rolling restlessly, silently, as it has rolled for ages. It makes no comments; it has seen many things. To-night I sat and watched it till a tangled forest sprang up about me, and I saw a strange, high-bowed, storm-beaten craft glide past me, ghostly white, its ghostly sailors gazing ahead and dreaming of spices and gold. * * * * * The old, old river--my only friend in a whole city! It goes its way--it is not of the hour. It fascinates me, and I sit and sit and wonder. I gaze into its black and gurgling depths, and whisper what Shelley whispered: “If I should go down there, I should _know_!” * * * * * But no, I should not know anything. * * * * * _The days when thou wert not, did they trouble thee? The days when thou art not shall trouble thee as much._ * * * * * May 24th. AN ESSAY AFTER RIGHTEOUSNESS