ink coarse pints of bitter, sendres  I could ell milady t. Instead, I must use my vocation to justify my day off. Lend me t I can drive to Oxford and buy a book of snoo fit in my bread, c uck fast.

    te afternoon already s fall. Flocks of croing a rusty ca s I did not kno get out to trudge along a lane  ogets into s;  kept me snug and  of telephone wires.

    trees, ted by intersections of dry-stone  nig t of tuation of toral coeaming byre, Colin Clout and oral domesticity. side, today, when he could be warm and dry, inside.

    too  is too . Silence and  succensity you kno must be like to live in a country or t puts its cold garlands on trees so prettily  blossoming. ( an aptly fragile simile, s Botticellian nuance. I congratulated myself.) No. today is as cold as tually ries; todays atrocious candour is t of te freckles t are tigmata of frostbite.

    My sensibility, te sensibility of a minor poet, tingled and crisped at t of so muceness.

    I ain t soon Id come to a village  trally in an ever-t and still t me in te  for ted croos.

    to a pair of anding open on a drive. t be some mansion or ot t  to be, to live in sucyle, tainly kno be ricry side  I flattened a brace of ps on my o Oxford? Encouraged, I turned in bete-posts, on wing circumcision caps of snow.

    trees ly lice of old cros. I could tell t nobody  slots and ts of birds marked surfaces already crisping . took me uprouser bottoms  t gre tress a tentative sed do ears, alt of t of crying.