Trueblood is bewitched to write a drama-- Only one drama, then to die. Enough To win the heights but once! He writes me letters, These later days marked "Opened by the Censor," About his drama, asks me what I think About this point of view, and that approach, And whether to etch in his hero's soul By etching in his hero's enemies, Or luminate his hero by enshadowing His hero's enemies. How shall I tell him Which is the actual and the larger theme, His hero or his hero's enemies? And through it all I see that Trueblood's mind Runs to the under-dog, the fallen Titan The god misunderstood, the lover of man Destroyed by heaven for his love of man. In July, 1914, while in London He took me to his house to dine and showed me The verses as above. And while I read He left the room, returned, I heard him move The ash trays on the table where we sat And set some object on the table. Then As I looked up from reading I discovered A skull and bony hand upon the table. And Trueblood said: "Look at the loft brow! And what a hand was this! A right hand too. Those fingers in the flesh did miracles. And when I have my hero's skull before me, His hand that moulded peoples, I should write The drama that possesses all my thought. You'd think the spirit of the man would come And show me how to find the key that fits The story of his life, reveal its secret. I know the secrets, but I want the secret. You'd think his spirit out of gratitude Would start me off. It's something, I insist, To find a haven with a dramatist After your bones have crossed the sea, and after Passing from hand to hand they reach seclusion, And reverent housing.