The form of my poem rises out of a past that so overwhelms the present with its worth and vision that I’m at a loss to explain my delusion that there exist any real links between that past and a future destiny worthy of it. The “destiny” is long since completed, perhaps the little last section of my poem is a hangover echo of it--but it hangs suspended somewhere in ether like an Absalom by his hair. The bridge as a symbol today has no significance beyond an economical approach to shorter hours, quicker lunches, behaviorism and toothpicks. And inasmuch as the bridge is a symbol of all such poetry as I am interested in writing it is my present fancy that a year from now I’ll be more contented working in an office than before. Rimbaud was the last great poet that our civilization will see--he let off all the great cannon crackers in Valhalla’s parapets, the sun has set theatrically several times since while Laforgue, Eliot and others of that kidney have whimpered fastidiously. _Everybody_ writes poetry now--and “poets” for the first time are about to receive official social and economic recognition in America. It’s really all the fashion, but a dead bore to anticipate. If only America were half as worthy today to be spoken of as Whitman spoke of it fifty years ago there might be something for me to say--not that Whitman received or required any tangible proof of his intimations, but that time has shown how increasingly lonely and ineffectual his confidence stands. There always remains the cult of “words,” elegancies, elaborations, to exhibit with a certain amount of pride to an “inner circle” of literary initiates. But this is, to me, rivalled by numerous other forms of social accomplishment which might, if attained, provide as mild and seductive recognitions. You probably think me completely insane, talking as obvious hysterics as [a] drunken chorus-girl. Well, perhaps I need a little more skepticism to put me right on _The Bridge_ again.... I am certainly in a totally undignified mind and undress--and I hope to appear more solidly determined soon. Please don’t think that the O’Neill foreword has precipitated anything, nor that I [am] burning manuscripts or plotting oriental travels.... Desolately I confess that I _may_ be writing stanzas again tomorrow. That’s the worst of it. Mrs. S asks to be remembered to you. --All this does not mean that I have resigned myself to inactivity.... A bridge will be written in some kind of style and form, at worst it will be something as good as advertising copy. After which I will have at least done my best to discharge my debt to Kahn’s kindness. 249: TO WALDO FRANK [_Isle of Pines_] _July 3rd, ’26_ Dear Waldo: I must thank you immediately for your wireless. The news is most welcome--and your affectionate haste in notifying me is not without results in piercing the miasmas of these tropics.