[BNP/E3, 49A4 – 55]

17-8-1915

Vague summer breathes yet swell the air

With molle[1] delight.

The night is accurate and fair.

But like a palsy a despair

Hath struck nay soul’s severe of itself. A delight

Hath come upon my consciousness.

I taste from myself nothing but distress…

There is a great apparelling for Death

In my soul’s heart.

Ah, senselessly the night’s untrammed breath 

Quietly doth start

Out of its summer being and doth enrich

The sense with its slow reach.

The subtle dart

Of feeling life has touched too deep my soul

And life is too much in my thought’s pall[2] whole.

O for something I might call rest,

Thought it might |death| or madness be!

O for a ceasing of this spectre, drest

In the armour of vacuity,

This consciousness, this loudless poison

Of knowing I am I, this being driven

To blurred conscious of being aware of

Myself or mine own self above. 

[55v]

matoner 

Mates r 

Mates smart

Mates arm r

Mates 

Mateander mates arm

Matin 

Masteriner

m a t e r

the mat

mates r

mate

 
[1] molle /dull\
[2] pall /dim\