ᚩ ᛭ ᛉ ᛭ ᛟ

There is nothing but water at the holy bathing places;

“Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.”

Wednesday, 13th June 1923

"16. Saw the first Wild Rose in bloom, -- a fine pink one, on the top of a high hedge; also Blackberry in blossom. The Roses and Honeysuckle are full of bud, but they are late in bloom this year, owing to the long spell of cold weather."

I was struck by his air of intellect, and by the fiery fixity of his gaze—the gaze of a man who is dominated by one idea to the exclusion of all else. Some medieval alchemist, who believed himself to be on the point of attaining his objective after years of unrelenting research, might have looked as he did.

“What is a poem, I told myself, if not that magical thing that inventories everything so that the harms and hurts of our lives are understood in some way.”