DIARY PAGES: Lenore

The pitiable poet is at it again, lurking at the seaside attempting to accost me on my daily walks. It confounds me and sets my teeth on edge - so much so that I have asked Mother to send me abroad.

I am neither rare nor radiant (something he has taken to calling out after me as I flee); what I am is exhausted by his pursuits - his disheveled countenance and dismal air. I will add here that the birds (crows and gulls) like him less than I do.

It will be much better to swelter in Sardinia with Cousin Emmaline than remain a prisoner of this foolishness. The constable has assured us that the poet is harmless, but I disagree; he is clearly afflicted of mind and unpredictable in his habits.