In a hotel room by the sea, the Master

Sits brooding on the continent he has crossed.

Not that he foresees immediate disaster,

Only a sort of freshness being lost—

Or should he go on calling it Innocence?

The sad-faced monsters of the plains are gone;

Wall Street controls the wilderness. There’s an immense

Novel in all this waiting to be done.

But not, not—sadly enough—by him. His talents,

Such as they may be, want a different theme,

Rather more civilized than this, on balance.

For him now always the recurring dream

Is just the mild, dear light of Lamb House falling

Beautifully down the pages of his calling.