
For the first time in my life I heard of you last winter, and your wonderful poetry although I will say your name was somewhat familiar—yet as I had identified you with no memories or experiences, to me, you did not exist.
I read "Some Personal & old Age Memoranda" the other
articles relating to you and the short poems published in Lippincott's Monthly
Magazine. That was my first acquaintance with you. It was also a revalation revelation
. All my life I have felt that real poetry did not depend on rhyme
metre
accent
&c; that if all those qualities were there and the soul wanting we had a
skeleton grieving and ghastly that glided here and there in rhythmic motion yet
thrilled with disgust only.
I have lately read "A Twilight Song" & To the "Sunset Breeze."
That is all of yours I have ever read, just enough to whet my appetite.
As soon as I can afford it I will have "Leaves of Grass." I want it badly but had spent all my spare change before I knew I wanted it.
I have written sometimes what seemed poetry to me but when I tried to put it in regular harmonious order hoop it round like a barrel, as it were, the poetry was all choked out and it fell flat and insipid from my hands.
I have never offered any of it
for
publication but have hidden it away or destroyed it. I was not brave as were you
and besides I am not great.
Last week was Decoration Day in Waco and I wrote one of my poems but did not offer it to the committee nor for publication. Only one person, a sister, has seen it, today I was looking at your portrait and I felt as if I wanted you to read it.
I do not expect any notice from you whatever in your infirmity & present state of health.
It is only a harmless conceit of a working woman (I am a teacher) My husband was a southern soldier & is dead; it seemed as if it would be a sort of satisfaction to me if I could think in my mind (["]Walt Whitman has read my attempt at poetry")


I do not believe you will misunderstand the sentiment although the lines may provoke a smile.
Yours Truly, Theresa B.H. Brown 1408 Waco, Texas.

A Decoration Day Poem.
Memories sad rule hearts this hour, Darkness, dreariness, pain Homesickness, leaden rain Blood, our heroe's heroe's blood poured forth in rivers o'er hill and plain— Rushing on forever. Winds making moan, sighing through tangled swamps; Lifting long matted locks from palid brows. Mingling with groans as potent memories Of sweet hearts, sisters, wives, and their caressing Flit through tired brains. Hearts ceasing to beat—bodies clothed in rags— Shoeless feet—flags drooping—torn; Leaders with faces bowed—hearts like lead;







