Half a day is dead already-- a lady with a baby in the shady graveyard promenade not quite the idea but the first idea to be impressed so firmly--Grace to be born in the bisected quadrangle stones propped insensible but all in relation to the babe. Babe what suckles babe what grows comfortable with thieves in a fertile bed of unsaid slice of eponymous grafted to the reef Hold my hand in the undergrowth waist high at your leisure cheerful child of melancholy and displeasure. Soft in the lap you grow hard at the breast--Oh under- and aboveground we go to relieve us. Camphor and cambric by the hand not by halves, one turn more will take us back to where we rest. Baby is not baby when she wears her oblong freshet I will take her home to rest.