April 13.
I AM sitting writing out on my sand and barrenness. The sky is pale and faded now in the west, but a few minutes ago there was the same old-time, always-new miracle of roses and gold, and glints and gleams of silver and green, and a river in vermilions and purples—and lastly the dear, the beautiful: the red, red line.
There also are heavy black shadows.
I have given my heart into the keeping of this.
And still, as always, I look at it—and feel it all with thrilling passion—and await the Devil's coming.
