[BNP/E3, 49A3 – 62]

NOTHING.

The day sickens into the lakes

The colour that its pallor wears…

A loss of contour overtakes

The landscape, and the horizon bears

Like a defeated flag the dim

Purposelessness of its dead rim.

Let my heart forsake everything.

I shall be richer by all I.

Every breath, each passing wing

Takes me from myself. The whole sky

Eats into my self-consciousness

And detracts from my true distress.

For my true sorrow is not that

[62v]

The day is sad as I am sad,

But that no moment can abate

That pain that is all I have had

To take with me and see and feel

While life goes by like a mere wheel.

No. Deeper things than skies and plains

Are dark and lower’d o’er in me.

My sorrows are more empty pains

Than landscapes[1] can symbols be.

And my void weight of life and self

Resembles nothing but itself.

12-X-1914.

 
[1] landscapes /deep which plains\