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317th March1926If words come, they come of themselves.There was the story of the bear on the Himalayan pass - Mr.heCarmichaelhad twiddled his thumbs. So with his acrostics,with his poetry:he did not hurry himself: if words caomeworkthey caome.What good poe writing has ever been done in a hurry?he asked Andrew, who alone of all the world was admitted toMr. Carmichaels bedroom,& had been shown those sacredthe silk   thetherelicstooth & some dried seeds & some scraps of silkain a little wood scented box.For Ddid he not sometimes4 £808  160wait a whole winter for words to come to him, Mr.Carmichael proceeded, sinking into his arm chair. (Hetranslated Persian) & his eyes, fixed blandly upon the skywatchthe flight of wordsseemed to gaze await contentedly, as a cat will&one ?flieswatch the birds by the at last will fly withinhis& he catchesit;(for how cd onewrite regularlyreach. So, disregarding Mr. Ramsays methodical industry,at last a word came his way; & he set it down, completedanother of those stanzas which & had no doubt that theseat allstanzas, which he translated from the Persian, werelong, so infinitely bydestined to endure so many centuries that the lapse of yearshe spent in the months he spent making them were meremere drops in the   That his own time vanished like aYetdrop of rain upon the window.And if there wereother ways,other waysof life than this, he saluted them; if there weremen ?of more activeother views, he only prayed them to passhim by, as slipping upstairs he craved of thatkind lady Mrs. Ramsaythat she should notin making itrequire him to stop& talk to her, for in suchmatters he was inadequate,he knew. As forwasting his own meagre opportunities (for comparedwith many men he knew himself to be of little account)his he was not at all inclinedto do it: he wasso that if, after a pause, a second helping of soup seemedtodesirable; he would, unconcernedly, ask the maid for it.the sun theof warmth for food;of the comfort of achairalittle expedition; sometrifling gratificationof the senses.