Which point I felt to be the too-note of the helliad, so I rose and came into the house.
I felt replete with rhythm and with a sense of surprising human attitudes remote from my own.
[Swift go my days]
To-morrow
SWIFT, Swift go my days.
By rights I think time should drag with me, for I am wasting my portion of life as I live it.
But my days pass Swift—Swift, Swift.
They come, they fly away—before I know.
I’m thinking it is Tuesday: but while I’m thinking—Wednesday has come: and gone: and Thursday is rushing in. Tuesday, blue-and-gold or gray-and-silver, with its mornings and nights and bits of food and openings of doors and thinkings: Wednesday with the same equipment: Thursday the same.