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Poem	His malice was a pimple down his good big face, with its sly eyes. I must be sorry Mr Frost has left: I like it so less I don't understood-” he couldn't hear or see well-”all we sift-” but this is a bad story. He had fine stories and was another man in private; difficult, always. Courteous, on the whole, in private. He apologize to Henry, off & on, for two blue slanders; which was good of him. I don't know how he made it. Quickly, off stage with all but kindness, now. I can't say what I have in mind. Bless Frost, any odd god around. Gentle his shift, I decussate & command, stoic deity. For a while here we possessed an unusual man.
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