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  Dear Sir

When my friend, Mr. Linton was here last, I asked him, during one of our conversations about you, whether I might venture to send you the book I was then writing, as soon as it came out. If he had not encouraged me to do so, I should hardly have liked to trouble you with it, and yet there is no one living by whom I am more desirous to be known than by you. The "Leaves of   of Grass" have become a part of my every-day thought and experience. I have considered myself as "the new person drawn toward" you; I have taken your warning, I have weighed all the doubts and the dangers, and the result is that I draw only closer and closer to you.

As I write this I consider how little it can matter to you in America, how you are regarded by a young man in England of whom you have never heard. And yet I cannot believe that you, the poet of comrades, will refuse   the sympathy I lay at your feet. In any case I can but thank you for all that I have learned from you, all the beauty you have taught me to see in the common life of healthy men and women, and all the pleasure there is in the mere humanity of other people. The sense of all this was in me, but it was you, and you alone, who really gave it power to express itself. Often when I have been alone in the company of one or other of my dearest friends, in the very deliciousness of the sense of   nearness and sympathy, it has seemed to me that you were somewhere invisibly with us.

Accept the homage and love, and forgive the importunity of your sincere disciple Edmund W. Gosse.