O eternal land of whispering Lotos Eaters!”
Then I feared that some impertinent poet might have said the same thing many a year before.
Poem manufacture is a slow job.
Modern people slight it, calling it an old fashion. Shall I give it up for some more brilliant up-to-date pose?
17th—I began to knit a gentleman’s stockings in wool.
They will be a souvenir of this voyage.
(I cannot keep a secret.)
I tell you frankly that I designed them to be given to the gentleman who will be my future “beloved.”
The wool is red, a symbol of my sanguine attachment.
The stockings cannot be much larger than my own feet. I dislike large-footed gentlemen.