Out there in the fields, few social affairs, on backwoods lanes, rarely a horse or carriage; bright daylight, but I shut my bramblewood door, in empty rooms rid myself of dusty thoughts. And then at times in the little village, pushing through the grass, I come and go with the others, but when we meet, no idle chatter, only talk of how mulberry and hemp are growing. My mulberry and hemp have daily grown taller, my lands grown broader day by day, but always I fear that frost or hail may come and knock them all down like so many weeds.