The poem
In the years when we were all children, this inclining to be alone so much was gentle; others' time passed fighting, and one had one's faction, one's near, one's far-off place, a path, an animal, a picture.
And I still imagined, that life would always keep providing for one to dwell on things within, Am I within myself not in what's greatest? Shall what's mine no longer soothe and understand me as a child?
Suddenly I'm as if cast out, and this solitude surrounds me as something vast and unbounded, when my feeling, standing on the hills of my breasts, cries out for wings or for an end.