Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. She was vaguely happy over this arrangement which put her in the wing across the middle hall, alone. “Here,” he said, “is this Blau See, and here we rest until to-morrow.
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