I have a sense of melancholy isolation, life rapidly vanishing, all the usual things. It's very strange how often strong feelings don't seem to carry any message of action

And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.

And immediately Rather than words comes the thought of high windows: The sun-comprehending glass, And beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.

We should be careful / Of each other, we should be kind / While there is still time.

Depression hangs over me as if I were Iceland.

Life is first boredom, then fear.

It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not untrue and not unkind.