[BNP/E3, 49A2 – 13]

25/2/09.

To My Dearest Friend

When I am dead you’ll write – I hope you will –

A terrible sonnet on my early death,

In which, starting that my life was wearieth,

You’ll notice how I lie, pale, cold and still.

_______

This in the quatrains, which likewise you’ll fill 

With some reflections on how sun goes heath

And how the cold and heavy hearth beneath

There is no end to living, good and ill.

_______

[13v]

A kind of transcendental faculties

________________________________________________

– What man is that who so respectfully turn off his hat to you?

– On the greatest scandals in the world.

________________________________________________