My dear Mr Moody
May I venture to thank you for the poem in the last Atlantic?
I am enough of a Tolstoian to care for “art” as it makes me to express “that which one feels but finds inexpressible”—and we have had some rather heartbreaking little fetes upon the safe return of young neighbors from Cuba or the Philippines—and I have said some things to desolate mothers, of which I am bitterly ashamed.
Your poem has brought both clarity and comfort for which I am very grateful.
I am so seldom moved to write to an author, that I am afraid I am doing it awkwardly.