May 27 + 

Sat upon a comfortable jetty of rock and watched the waves without a glimmer of an idea in my mind about anything⁠—though to outward view I might have been a philosopher in cerebral parturition with thoughts as big as babies. Instead, little rustling dead leaves of thoughts stirred and fluttered in the brain⁠—the pimple e.g. I recollected on my Aunt’s nose, or the boyishness of Dr. ⸻’s handwriting, or Swinburne’s lines: “If the golden-crested wren / Were a nightingale⁠—why, then / Something seen and heard of men / Might be half as sweet as when / Laughs a child of seven.” + 

I continued in this pleasurable coma all the afternoon and went home refreshed. + 