Not verses so much as the stuff that verses are made of. I don't suppose
that the thoughts which came up of themselves in my mind were so mighty
different from what come up in the minds of other young folks. And that
's the best reason I could give for telling 'em. I don't believe
anything I've written is as good as it seemed to me when I wrote it,--he
stopped, for he was afraid he was lying,--not much that I 've written, at
any rate,--he said--with a smile at the honesty which made him qualify
his statement. But I do know this: I have struck a good many chords,
first and last, in the consciousness of other people. I confess to a
tender feeling for my little brood of thoughts. When they have been
welcomed and praised it has pleased me, and if at any time they have been
rudely handled and despitefully entreated it has cost me a little worry.
I don't despise reputation, and I should like to be remembered as having
said something worth lasting well enough to last.
But all that is nothing to the main comfort I feel as a writer. I have
got rid of something my mind could not keep to itself and rise as it was
meant to into higher regions. I saw the aeronauts the other day emptying
from the bags some of the sand that served as ballast. It glistened a
moment in the sunlight as a slender shower, and then was lost and seen no
more as it scattered itself unnoticed.
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