One recalls that you had, when young, met H.D., who I must believe could see you, recognize then your distinction, your almost elusive brilliance. As you, she invokes another , so that there is not fact of one presence solely, but always some other there, or about to be, or just now gone, or else coming again to one's apprehension. I always thought you very patient with the male machismo of the college, which gave such small room if any to a poet as yourself. I don't think you ever found the fashionable loneliness of the artist either productive or fun. You have held to those you've cared for with great compassion, let them be actual, made them present in your love.
Poets are makers, they say.
Reading now, all the years passed seem an endless time that we have known one another, dear friend. You've given everything you have. Here it comes back a thousandfold.