I live in state of continual exhaustion and really haven't felt in any way well or alive during the last two months expect on the occasions I have been away from Eton.
I find that more and more I am unsatisfied with what is merely personal in poetry.
It's one's duty to stay young as long as possible.
Perched solitary in my high room that looks one way upon the Southern buttresses of the chapel, golden with this autumn sunshine, and on the other side, right over the roof to the castle [Windsor] gigantic on its hills.
On the whole I am fairly happy, but I have decided that God never intended me to do any regular work.
I find that I am not cut out for a teacher of boys; or rather I find that all my knowledge, such as it is, is quite of the wrong sort; remote, vague, facts inextrica bly mixed up with appreciations and opinions; I am setting to work to tabulate and compress.