Волны

           I,Louis,I,whoshallwalktheearththeseseventyyears,ambornentire,outofhatred,outofdiscord.Hereonthisringofgrasswehavesattogether,boundbythetremendouspowerofsomeinnercompulsion.Thetreeswave,thecloudspass.Thetimeapproacheswhenthesesoliloquiesshallbeshared.Weshallnotalwaysgiveoutasoundlikeabeatengongasonesensationstrikesandthenanother.Children,ourliveshavebeengongsstriking;clamourandboasting;criesofdespair;blowsonthenapeoftheneckingardens.

           ’Nowgrassandtrees,thetravellingairblowingemptyspacesinthebluewhichtheythenrecover,shakingtheleaveswhichthenreplacethemselves,andourringhere,sitting,withourarmsbindingourknees,hintatsomeotherorder,andbetter,whichmakesareasoneverlastingly.ThisIseeforasecond,andshalltrytonighttofixinwords,toforgeinaringofsteel,thoughPercivaldestroysit,asheblundersoff,crushingthegrasses,withthesmallfrytrottingsubservientafterhim.YetitisPercivalIneed;foritisPercivalwhoinspirespoetry.’

           ’Forhowmanymonths,’saidSusan,’forhowmanyyears,haveIrunupthesestairs,inthedismaldaysofwinter,inthechillydaysofspring?Nowitismidsummer.Wegoupstairstochangeintowhitefrockstoplaytennis--JinnyandIwithRhodafollowingafter.IcounteachstepasImount,countingeachstepsomethingdonewith.SoeachnightItearofftheolddayfromthecalendar,andscrewittightintoaball.Idothisvindictively,whileBettyandClaraareontheirknees.Idonotpray.Irevengemyselfupontheday.