This year, trouble settledin with me, and I mournthe dying of tonguesand ordinary doors.Time is no old token.I have lost friends anda calf’s head at cards.
After several walksup and down, I metwith the dead.Night is now too sudden—an old hole.What news of death?They hear nothing at all,believing that a house on fireis home to music.
The sea is givenour letter relating the badcondition of the money,and it is well received.I lie to Godbut not to the rain,my mind full of money—a little green chamber.
A morning winddid business in the alder.Coach dined with post—where the letters come.A stay had a little talkwith a ship.So money will give mean answer shortly.