I see the golden stars and how they dance;
It's night as yet, and chaos utterly.
Will with the early morn's clear countenance
Peace come to me at last, and harmony?
The entire world-picture is disarranged. As if I were bewitched. An evil spirit accompanies me and embitters my joy in everything. He distorts everything beautiful, everything simple, and makes a caricature out of it.
My inner self is so closely connected with my body that they form a unity and together constitute my I, my illogical, nervous, individual I.
As soon as I close my eyes, there come poems, poems, poems. If I wanted to write them all down I should have to fill pages and pages-hospital poems... weak and full of inner restraint. They only beat their wings softly; but at least something is stirring. God grant that it may grow!