I had a very odd dream last night, and take it as an ill omen, for I
don't expect that the book will meet a better fate. I thought I had
one of the proofs of the new poems from London, and after looking at
it awhile it shrank through my hands like sand, and crumbled into
dust. The birds were singing in Oxey Wood at six o'clock this evening
as loud and various as in May.