10. Of course, this pale, drawn, emaciated poet Wandering calmly down a path through the forest Will never write anything of the first importance. (Or, indeed, second.) Hmm. He looks even more pleased with himself than usual today.
11. Some scholars have gathered secretly in a clearing in the woods. Nervously at first, but with ever-growing enthusiasm, They begin to discuss the great, the ultimate problems of existence. Those who think they are not really there slowly begin to lose ground.
12. The road hurries eagerly on through the forest, As though it were making its way in there for the first time. There is nearly always something novel to discover every morning. Those abandoned rags, for instance. (What a queer noise they are making!)
13. At the height of summer, in a very small space Between cooling rocks and trees, in an unfrequented Part of the province, there sounds a complex noise, Bespeaking simultaneous indulgence in two or three of life’s greatest joys.
14. To the Tune of: Late Whispers in the Twilight ‘Standing out on the balcony, near the crown of the pine-trees, As the day after my ninety-second birthday passes, I sigh to realise I shall never meet again Those two vicious daughters of the neighbour who departed some forty-five years ago, alas.’
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