Friday On Morotai in the South Pacific, Wayne wrote the following in his journal . . . .
I lit my candle in the quiet of the night and it burned steadily. My mood is much the same, a deep quiet love of you. I think of the home roses blooming; the bright moonlight beaming. You gaze at me and I return that special look. Each of your expressions is to me a book whose pages I slowly, aptly turn then. The wind rises a bit and it rains without. The candle begins to lean and casts a longer flame, then it flickers, jumps and its sudden brightness, darts of almost darkness cause my passions to churn. The wind begins to abate, the flame steadies a little, a slow fire burns within me. Now the wind is gone. A peace and longing are with me. Such are dreams made of and poor poets longing.