1 January 1922

1 dreamed I sailed to Egypt with Grandma — a very white boat. Cold, still. The gale last night has blown nearly all the snow off the trees ; only big, frozen-looking lumps remain. In the wood where the snow is thick, bars of sunlight lay like pale fire. I have left undone those things I ought to have done and I have done those things which I ought not to have done, e.g. violent impatience with L.M. Wrote The Doves' Nest this afternoon. I was in no mood to write ; it seemed impossible. Yet when I had finished three pages, they were all right. This is a proof (never to be too often proved) that once one has thought out a story nothing remains but the labour. Wing Lee x disappeared for the day. Read W.J.D.'s poems. I feel very near to him in mind. I want to remember how the light fades from a room — and one fades with it, is expunged, sitting still, knees together, hands in pocket. . . .