​What I wouldn’t give to be coming through Firle woods, the brain laid up in sweet lavender, so sane & cool, & ripe for the morrow’s task. How I should notice everything, the phrase for it coming the moment after & fitting like a glove; & then on the dusty road, as I ground my pedals so my story would begin telling itself; & then the sun would be done, & home, & some bout of poetry after dinner, half read, half lived, as if the flesh were dissolved & through it the flowers burst red & white. 

To the River, 9-10