1 April 1867 – 7 April 1867

Farringford. Tennyson and I busied ourselves in the shrubberies, transplanting primroses with spade, knife, and wheelbarrow. After dinner T. concocts an experimental punch with whisky and claret — not successful. Talks of Publishers, anon of higher things. He said, ' I feel myself to be a centre — can't believe I shall die. Sometimes I have doubts, of a morning. Time and Space appear thus by reason of our boundedness.' We spoke of Swedenborg, animals, etc., all with the friendliest sympathy and mutual understanding. T, is the most delightful man in the world to converse with, even when he disagrees. To my inn, where I woke in the dark, bitten, and improvised two lines — Who in a country inn lies ill at ease On fozy feathers fill'd with furious fleas.