Reading the six lines over, I thought each of them might make a picture and wondered why I had not set about drawing from the first. I discussed with myself why it is easier to poetise than to paint. Having come so far, I felt the rest ought not to be so very difficult to follow, though a desire seized me that I should now sing a sentiment that defied colour and brush. The squeezing my head this way and that way yielded more lines:
“Not a word uttered sitting alone,
But a small light I see in the heart.
Unwontedly troublesome are human affairs.
Who shall forget this state?
Enjoying one day’s quiet
I know now how I passed hundreds of busy years.
My yearning, where shall I communicate?
Far, far away, in the land of white clouds.”
I read the whole piece over again. It was not so very poor; but as a depiction of ethereal conditions I had just experienced, I felt something still wanting. I might try to compose one more piece, and with the pencil still between my fingers, I happened to look out of the opened door way of my room to see at beautiful vision flitting across the three feet space. What could it have been?