Soon the cadence of his paragraphs settled to an ordered beat and rhythm, and in the end Presley had thrust aside his journal and was once more writing verse.
He picked up his incomplete poem of "The Toilers," read it hastily a couple of times to catch its swing, then the Idea of the last verse--the Idea for which he so long had sought in vain--abruptly springing to his brain, wrote it off without so much as replenishing his pen with ink.
He added still another verse, bringing the poem to a definite close, resuming its entire conception, and ending with a single majestic thought, simple, noble, dignified, absolutely convincing.
Presley laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair, with the certainty that for one moment he had touched untrod heights.

His hands were cold, his head on fire, his heart leaping tumultuous in his breast.
Now at last, he had achieved.

He saw why he had never grasped the inspiration for his vast, vague, IMPERSONAL Song of the West.

At the time when he sought for it, his convictions had not been aroused; he had not then cared for the People.

His sympathies had not been touched.
Small wonder that he had missed it.