I am living for a time with some good friends of mine who are also good friends of yours—the Johnstons.1
A few evenings since Bertha Johnston2 came to me saying, "You think so much as Uncle Walt does, you ought to know him" and she placed in my hands an open copy of loc_vm.01702_large.jpg your "Leave of Grass." I read them, and I have reread many times since, the vital words that record the history of my own soul. I have not gained one new thought from you, but you have restored upon me something better yet:
Hail to the man who has seen the gods whom I have seen. Hail to the man whose natural life has honored his own godhood. loc_vm.01703_large.jpg He entices the majestic caress of the universe.
If I could, I would go to Camden to meet you face to face. It is not possible now. I know you, Walt Whitman. Over the space which intervenes I, thirty six, extend in greeting to you, seventy two, a hand which thrills with the quick response to every word of yours that I have read,
"A girl of the States." loc_vm.01704_large.jpgJuly 8th 1890. P.S. Since writing the above you have had me by the throat, and you would not let me go until I blessed you.
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