incredibly little.
the fourth is Sensuality which burns and bursts across my Mind, half-missing my Body.
the fifth is Anxiety, strange flawed green stone—by it I worry, tortured and wildly wavering, about the passing hours of my life: where they are going, where they are taking me.
the sixth is Amativeness, extraordinary deep-tinted warm false gem—it makes me love someway amorously some person I meet and fancy: an intimate tragedy, crucial and trivial.
the seventh is Fatigue of the spirit itself, gray sad stone, meaning terrible sensations of age in my young flesh.
the eighth is Incongruity, the sense and feeling of it, round blue stone—it kills what might be art and constructiveness and excellence in me.
the ninth is Acquiescence, worn dull stone—it has kept me all the ages from the salvation of heated luminous strife.
the tenth is Sensitiveness, pale-toned stone—by it the fingers of life touch me too suddenly, too sharply, too tensely to do me the good they might.
the eleventh is Doubt, frail opalescent stone—by it my delight in the sunny Spring wind against my cheek is qualified with dubious surprise: by it I half-disbelieve in moon and stars and in long country
