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  • "JANUARY 15, 19—
  • "I've been out for a moonlit snowshoe tramp. There was a nice bite of frost in
  • the air and the night was exquisite—a frosty, starry lyric of light. Some
  • nights are like honey—and some like wine—and some like wormwood. To-night is
  • like wine—white wine—some clear, sparkling, fairy brew that rather goes to
  • one's head. I am tingling all over with hope and expectation and victory over
  • certain principalities and powers that got a grip on me last night about three
  • o'clock.
  • "I have just drawn aside the curtain of my window and looked out. The garden
  • is white and still under the moon, all ebony of shadow and silver of frosted
  • snow. Over it all the delicate traceries where trees stand up leafless in
  • seeming death and sorrow. But only seeming. The life-blood is at their hearts
  • and by and by it will stir and they will clothe themselves in bridal garments
  • of young green leaves and pink blossoms. And over there where the biggest
  • drift of all lies deep the Golden Ones will uplift their trumpets of the
  • morning.
  • "And far beyond our garden field after field lies white and lonely in the
  • moonlight. Lonely? I hadn't meant to write that word. It slipped in. I'm
  • _not_  lonely—I have my work and my books and the hope of spring—and I know
  • that this calm, simple existence is a much better and happier one than the
  • hectic life I led last summer.
  • "I believed that before I wrote it down. And now I don't believe it. It isn't
  • true. This is stagnation!!
  • "Oh, I am—I  _am_  lonely—with the loneliness of unshared thought. What is the
  • use of denying it? When I came in I  _was_  the victor—but now my banner is in
  • the dust again."