Virginia Woolf at fifty-nine
Worn thin by an infinite
Drizzle of syllables,
A pluvial onslaught of words.

The last walls are breached;
Inside, a well of circular echoes,
Disembodied voices, fleshless phrases —
Insistent, suffocating.

Virginia Woolf at fifty-nine
Crossed the river meadows
In green spring sun,
Pausing once to choose a river stone
Of heft enough, round, water smooth,
And pushed it in the pocket of her coat.

Virginia Woolf at fifty-eight:
“I shall swim into quiet water.”