p.

Express. I write very little now, three
poems this year, see all the banner I
can make, two are going in The Cos-
mopolitan and one in the Independent.
I think if my resident demon, depression,
should retire with a pension, I could
write good prose again, but alas the
fire no longer burns as of yore on
the altar, the passion has died out,
and the embers have to be blowed
up with the bellows, ( ie to earn money)
Every body's ship but ours is moored in
the placid bay of prosperity, while we
are stranded on the shore, stuck in the
sand above the tide, the letters on the figure
head, still plain to the passers of "Failure" -
Now after this beautiful simile dont talk to me
of Longfellow's drum etc -
I have not received the drawings you wrote
of, and by the way, suggest to Master [Gary, Harry ?] that
I would like some "more" maple syrup, I dont
know whether it is fancy or not, but I think