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To Walt Whitman Dear Sir,

I enclose a poem "Thanatos"—It has never been published and is the expression of a young Lady's conception of death Is it asking too much for a line   from you who must know its merits perhaps better than others who have not the poet sense of appreciation —If it pleases you and is worth your while—will you acknowledge the source to Miss Helen J. Holcombe 211. West 69th St New York.

Your Most truly A Friend—of H.J.H.
   
 

"Thanatos."

A Minstrel, straying from the courts of God, Who sings of other lands, and fairer Climes, Soft Skies of blues; olives and limes Live all-days in those far off Climes An Gilead minstrel he, an alien God, Whose strange song sways as half remembered chimes Of bells will flood the dreariness drowsy Dark Deep in the night or mother-given rhymes Will creep to mind, and stir up happy tears. A fair–strange Minstrel he; his exiled feet Soft tread the Earth. Men fear the song he sings, So pure the harmony it brings, Discordant with their own it rings. Oft-times upon his path, a Life he'll meet! With harp unstrung—he slights not slaves, nor kings— But tunes its plaint to some diviner key. Then by one gracious hand-sweep oe'r the strings Melodiously the soul sends God-ward—free— Helen J. Holcombe—1891.
  see notes Dec 7 1891