Day by day this first
impulse would evoke fresh "poemets," until at length the accumulation was
exhaustive. Then he merely gutted his treasury and the ode was complete.
It was only when sense and feeling attained a sort of ecstasy that he
succeeded in distilling the true essence that is poetry and in enstopping
it in a crystal phial of form.
The prose of his "Specimen Days," indeed, is often nearer to poetry than
his verse:
Much of the time he sleeps, or half sleeps.... I often come and
sit by him in perfect silence; he will breathe for ten minutes as
softly and evenly as a young babe asleep. Poor youth, so
handsome, athletic, with profuse beautiful shining hair. One time
as I sat looking at him while he lay asleep, he suddenly, without
the least start awaken'd, open'd his eyes, gave me a long steady
look, turning his face very slightly to gaze easier--one long,
clear, silent look--a slight sigh--then turn'd back and went into
his doze again. Little he knew, poor death-stricken boy, the
heart of the stranger that hover'd near.
The western star, Venus, in the earlier hours of evening has
never been so large, so clear; it seems as if it told something,
as if it held rapport indulgent with humanity, with us Americans.
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