I am not writing to O’Neill about _White Buildings_--and do not expect to write him until I hear directly from him. He is supposed to be back in NY by this time, and in his last letter he said that he expected to see Liveright on his return and talk things over. He knows that I have prepared in mss. all the poems which are to be included in the book and that all that can now hold it back is the lack of his foreword. It was hard for me to ask him to write such a thing for my book, and it has been harder and more embarrassing still for me to have kept trailing him with letters of urgence.... It’s impossible for me [to] address him again on the subject. I’m sorry that what-ever-it-was made him feel constrained to promise the favor initially. It will be just as well for me to forget publishers for awhile, I think, though I can’t forget how steadfastly you have persevered in helping me--whatever the results have amounted to. And don’t think too much about me; my judgments are too unsettled these days to make me feel that I deserve much attention, much less the faith that you assure me of. The situation is really unique with me; it is absurd to say that one is battling indifference; but neither does one build out of an emptied vision. Mere word-painting and juggling, however fastidious,--a prospect of this doesn’t excite one very much. At times it seems demonstrable that Spengler is quite right. At present--I’m writing nothing--would that I were an efficient factory of some kind! It was unfortunate in a way to have been helped by our friend, the banker,--with my nose to the grindstone of the office I could still fancy that freedom would yield me a more sustained vision; now I know that much has been lacking all along. This is less personal than it sounds. I think that the artist more and more licks his own vomit, mistaking it for the common diet. He amuses himself that way in a culture without faith and convictions--but he might as well be in elfin land with a hop pipe in his mouth.... No, _The Bridge_ isn’t very flamboyant these days. I’m glad that the Mango poem meant something to you. I’m cooking up a couple of other short poems to go with it (“Kidd’s Cove,” & “The Tampa Schooner”) under the common title of “Grand Cayman.” Maybe I can sell them to Marianne M[oore]. Word was just forwarded from Patterson that Edgell Rickword, who edits _The Calendar_ (London), has taken three poems I sent him about eight weeks ago, “At Melville’s Tomb,” “Passage” and “Praise for an Urn.” _The Calendar_ is a very decent quarterly, and I’m glad to get the “Melville” in print--not one magazine in America would take it. You ought to send them something of yours--(1 Featherstone Buildings, London, W.C.1.)