September 16, 1932
[O]n my walk I almost felt my mind glow like hot iron -- so complete & holy was the old habitual beauty of England: the silver sheep clustering; & the downs soaring, like birds wings sweeping up & up -- I said [to] myself that beauty had become almost entirely satisfactory. . . . I mean, I can fasten on a beautiful day, as a bee fixes itself on a sunflower. It feeds me, rests me, satisfies me, as nothing else does.
(D4 124)
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