The divine ghastliness bit my little soul.
I couldn’t stand against it. I crept down like a mouse.
The poet said he was preparing a lecture. Its title was “Not in Books.”
He in his bed—there he passes every forenoon—was reciting his song.
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
“Sail on! Sail! Sail on! And on!”
I threw a bunch of roses over to his bed as an admirer does to a star.
Then I clapped my hands.
“Pan, pan! Pan, pan!”
10th—I went up the hill to gather mushrooms and watercresses.