A WISH that God would come personally to see me flutters in my thoughts ever and anon like a restless moth.
I am in a prison-mood and coldly content to be in it. For how long content—content is not the word: despairingly acquiescent—there's no word to express that—I can noway tell. But now I live and breathe aloof and strange-mooded. And with it I wish God would visit me a moment.
It is not a strong wish. Yet restless and persistent.
I want to be free from myself and away, loosed in the little broad big narrow World: but first and more I want God to visit me.
I want people again, those away from here who are my friends—some glowing-spirited ones who appreciate my Mind and cater to me: I want, I think, a poet to love me with some unobvious madness: but first and more I want God to visit me.
More than I want strength of spirit and flesh, more than I want a fat mental peace, more than I want to know John Keats in star-spaces: more than I want my dream-Child: I want God to visit me.
More than I wish this appalling tiredness would leave me: more than I wish this I write to be a realization, a de-fait portrait of the thin-hidden Me,
