[BNP/E3, 49A3 – 45]

14-3-1914.

The shadow of my lost hopes is a river through this riverless plain…

My heart is colour of the dread fruits of my sorrow…

The day of my being-myself is ever at its morrow…

And my helpless arms for some other really strain.

__________

Competition’s Journal.

Several

_______

7-2-15

Sometimes, suddenly looking up, I seem

To have caught on the empty form of things

Another aspect than the nonsense…

A sudden terror seizes me…

These were eyes in everything – where are things now?

There was a mysterious evil in the lifelessness of Presences…

All was more God, more Life, than it is now.

Where is hearing from this ever dawning when I looked up too suddenly?

What is hidden from me that is everything?

What did the hand that suddenly clouded when I looked contain?

Or can men turn the corner of Seeing and Hearing

And look the mystery of things?