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  My dear Poet, Walt Whitman.

I feel sorry in looking over the "Camden Compliments" not to be numbered among the many friends who remembered the seventieth birthday.

Possibly my answer to Mr. Traubel's invitation  to the dinner, in the form of verse, never reached him, or else he thought it unworthy of representation. In case of the latter, I should have been glad had he thought my name worthy of mention as a friend. But in case it was not received, I am going to give myself the pleasure  of sending to your own self a copy of the verses I sent him that you may see I did not forget you. This is but an added nod to the effort I am always making to bring to you the friendly love of our American people.

With loyal regards, Your friend in truth, Elizabeth Porter Gould.  
 

For May 31st 1889.*

"Splendor of ended day floating and filling me." Comes to my mind as I think of the hour When our poet and friends will be lovingly drinking The mystical cup of the seventy years' power. Were I the man-of-war bird he has pictured us Nothing could keep me from flying that way. But, though absent in body, there's nothing can hinder My tasting the joys of that festive birthday; For on the swift wings of the ending day's splendor My soul will glide in to drink deep the cup's wealth Who knows but the poet's keen sense of pure friendship Will feel, midst the joy, what I drink to his health! Splendor of ended day Be but the door Opening the endless way— Life evermore. *Song at Sunset

Elizabeth Porter Gould. Chelsea, Mass.