19th March
XXXIII
SPRING is early this year. The last week's O warm rain and hot sun have already helped the flowers in the wood to creep out from their coverlet of fallen leaves, and called forth the song of birds. It is just after sunrise when I fetched Greta for our walk. The morning sun has wakened me; I could not bear to sleep away the lovely hours, and whistling I stand outside the miller's house where everything is still closed. A curtain is pulled back and I catch sight of Greta in her white night-gown, with rich brown hair hanging over her shoulders, shining golden in the sun. She nods smilingly to me, and sends me such a merry good morning that the air seems filled with happi- ness. But when I think that all her radiant youth is mine, and that within a short time her white and lovely body will rest in my arms, I grow faint with joy.
We walk through the wood drinking the strong wine of spring, which the sun draws out of a thousand intoxicating essences. I see the blood mount in Greta's cheeks, I feel it throb in her hand as I hold it in mine. The wine of spring is in us, its enchanting drowsiness pours through our veins. Greta comes closer to me, and with her head against my shoulder, in a tired way she seeks my arm for support, and she whispers softly : ' Do you hear the same song as I do? '
' Which song do you hear? '
' I hear voices that call, and voices that tempt ;
