Armed with madness, I go on a long voyage.
Not till the end of the war will there be any time for art or love or magic again. Perhaps never again.
I blessed the power which has filled my life with poetry.
I thought of my father's wisdom, as though it were buried in a box under a tree. As in the old song - a gold box with a silver pin. Some day I should be grown up, and I should dig up the box and turn the pin.
It is in the nature of any effort to leave something serviceable behind it.
Frog or pearl, life hid something at the bottom of the cup.