this manner of speaking if a man is not sincere his speech betrayeth
him, for all true poetry was written on the Mount of Transfiguration,
and there is revelation in it and the mingling of heaven and earth.
I am jealous of the honor of poetry, and I am jealous of the good
name of my country, and I am impelled by both emotions to speak to you.

You have blood of our race in you, and you may, perhaps, have some
knowledge of Irish sentiment. You have offended against one of our
noblest literary traditions in the manner in which you have published
your thoughts. You begin by quoting Scripture. You preface your
verses on Ulster by words from the mysterious oracles of humanity
as if you had been inflamed and inspired by the prophet of God;
and you go on to sing of faith in peril and patriotism betrayed
and the danger of death and oppression by those who do murder by
night, which things, if one truly feels, he speaks of without
consideration of commerce or what it shall profit him to speak. But
you, brother, have withheld your fears for your country and mine until
they could yield you a profit in two continents. After all this high
speech about the Lord and the hour of national darkness it shocks me
to find this following your verses: "Copyrighted in the United
States of America by Rudyard Kipling." You are not in want. You
are the most successful man of letters of your time, and yet you
are not above making profit out of the perils of your country. You
ape the lordly speech of the prophets, and you conclude by warning
everybody not to reprint your words at their peril. In Ireland
every poet we honor has dedicated his genius to his country without
gain, and has given without stint, without any niggardly withholding
of his gift when his nation was dark and evil days. Not one of
our writers, when deeply moved about Ireland, has tried to sell
the gift of the spirit. You, brother, hurt me when you declare