O! James Whitcomb Riley!

This Man From Down On The Farm—one-while

your constant Companion, in work most

Congenial, all-while your Faithful Friend—rejoices.

and is exceeding Glad, That All Is Well With You!

For no one knew, better than you,

the Wisdom, the Beauty, of Death!

No one the more fully realized

the Folly, the Futility, of human Grief!

You firmly believed, that he, who follows The Christ;

that he, who, in all Humility, bears the Cross; that

he, who, in all Gratitude, wears upon his unworthy brow,

the imprint of the Kiss Divine!—the Kiss of Forgiveness

Complete—you firmly believed, that he ought to be

brave enough, strong enough, to meet the Call,

whensoever, wheresoever, it may chance to come.

You firmly believed that the Call always

comes at the Right Moment: that Incompletion

Here, finds its Completement There: that every

human Life holds—like the Palace of Aladdin—its

unfinished Window: that the finite mind,

hampered by its mortality, is a clog to any

Completion, to any Earthly Perfection.

Therefore, feeling, believing, as you did Here,

now knowing, as you must know There,

this Man rejoices, and is exceeding Glad,

That All Is Well With You!

O! James Whitcomb Riley

Your Nature-on the surface—was

Simple, Honest, Open, Direct.

It was all of that but—it was More!

It was deeper than Tears!

It was wider than Laughter!

It was more profound, more subtle,

than either your spoken Word.

or, your written, your printed Thought.

You were infinitely better than the

Very Best that you ever did!

High Praise, but True!

Your nature was strangely Complex:

There was the Man!

There was the Poet!

There was the Mystic!

The Man could be known—and was—of all men.

The Poet could be read—as he was—and he understood.

He could Sing—as he did—Songs

which caught the Hearts of the

People—from the Cradle to the Grave!

The Mystic!

O! James Whitcomb Riley!

That Mystic Element in your Nature!

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

But your Super-Sensitiveness, made you Suffer!