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Slept with Aunt Carrie & talked half the night.  Nothing could be lovelier than she was to me.

How is it that the thing that should unite us should be the great element of separation. Alice's affection for each.

Sept 13th

Painted an Egyptian lotus blossom at the Nowells. Such a glorious flower. But such an ordinary result in the painting, and yet it looked just like it!

Fearfully depressed.

Played duetts with Jessie in the evening & came across the one of Hayden I had played with Alice last in Paris, & there on the margin were some scraps of poetry she had set to the 

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music

Les départs sont des oiseaux qui s'envolent
Qui s'envolent pour ne plus revenir
Leurs ailes qu'on voudrait retenir
Les départs sont des oiseaux qui s'envolent

Painting is nothing compared to the spirituality of poetry! No! It is not that. It is that I, in particular, cannot make painting anything but materialistic. I have no power whatever. I have only vague longings for something, I don't know what. When I find it in other things or people, I recognize it with joy. But it is the mistakes I have made to try to create it myself. It is not for such as I! Misère!

I must learn to paint accurate likenesses and earn my living. If I even do that I may be thankful.