It was held under a Strong Curb:
It was constantly held in Check:
But it was never Overcome!
It was a Mood--not a Madness.
It seldom made an Outward Sign.
Then, it was brief, spasmodic, eratic.
It was known to but few, even of those
who came with you, in constant contact.
To this Man, that Mystic Element in your Nature,
made a most wonderful Appeal, deep, strong.
To him, it was the _real_ James Whitcomb Riley!
You were a Mystic, but never a Reformer.
You cheerfully rendered unto Ceasar all things
that were his just due.
You had no desire to overturn Natural Law,
Human Regulation.
You accepted, without question, the Established
Order of Things.
But so strong was this touch of the Mystic
that, it you had desired, you could have,
quickly, thickly, populated some far off Smiling Isle,
of the Fair Summer Seas, with a Band of
Cultured Men, of Cultured Women, ready,
eager, to follow you--that Mystic You! into
the Creation of a New Cult, of a New Religion!
In your Poems there is but a trickle of the Mystic
--a flash a dash--as the falling of a Star!
That Edgar Allen Poe Episode, is the Answer.
You were unduly humiliated by that Incident--
--and it was but as Nothing