I'm currently reading Home at Grasmere, a collation of Dorothy Wordsworth's journals and the poems her brother, William, was writing around the same time (compiled and edited by Colette Clark). Here's my impression of every single one of Dorothy's entries:
April 11th, Tuesday. A fine clear sunshiny morning. I made bread, then sate in the garden staring at a single blade of grass for six or seven hours. William unwell--a blockage in his bowels. No letters. After tea, walked to Rydale. Saw a screaming loon, which reminded me of Coleridge. The moonlight shimmering on the lake. A lone foxglove still visible amid lichens and stones. I'm so fucking bored I could puke.
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