[BNP/E3, 79¹ – 6]

July 1907

___

Younger I affected pain[1]

And suffering as the pretence of a poet

And sorrow and my young heart did not know it

And melancholy and I was not sad

Alexander Search

No man has ever suffered more than I

Not so ignobly, nor with such intense

Horror and sorrow, nor I would fly

From mine own self. Great indeed

The grief that makes upon itself to fret

Is the grief that makes upon itself to fret

That[2] the grief that striveth to forget

(And yet forgets not) |is true misery| –

I said “I ache”, “I sound”

But never did I say this “I am mad”.

[6^v]

The Door.

My dear Jones, I am in receipt

I am in receipt of your letter {…} count, I am in receipt

I am in receipt

There is subtle meaning in things, a grotesque analogy in the disparity between their souls whereat our reason is with fear. I am in receipt of your letter

letter

[1] pain ^{/woe un-glad\}

[2] That ^/Is\