Even the one to my mother had undergone a transformation.

I realized for the first time what I possessed in her, how wrong I had been, and what I owed to her.

One day during this period I remembered my Poem of the World, and instantly had the box brought in which I kept it among German favours, little pink notes, and similar trophies.
For the first time I perceived, in examining the fruits of the labour of so many days and nights, the vast disproportion between the magnitude of the subject and my untrained powers.

One passage seemed faulty, another so overstrained and inadequate, that I flung it angrily back among the rest.

At the same time I thought that the verses I had addressed to various beauties and the answers which I had received ought not to be seen by other eyes.