John Wilson

Wilson is publishing a poem entitled The City of the Palms. It is in the dramatic form and a perfect anomaly in literature. Wilson is a man of great genius and fancy, but he is intoxicated with Wordsworth and a perfect dreamer of moons, ships, seas, and solitudes. Were it not for this anti-hydrophobia (forgive my mangling of that long Greek word), I do not know what he might not be capable of.