Волны

           Everythinginmybodyseemsthinnedoutwithrunningandtriumph.Mybloodmustbebrightred,whippedup,slappingagainstmyribs.Mysolestingle,asifwireringsopenedandshutinmyfeet.Iseeeverybladeofgrassveryclear.Butthepulsedrumssoinmyforehead,behindmyeyes,thateverythingdances--thenet,thegrass;yourfacesleaplikebutterflies;thetreesseemtojumpupanddown.Thereisnothingstaid,nothingsettled,inthisuniverse.Allisrippling,allisdancing;allisquicknessandtriumph.Only,whenIhavelainaloneonthehardground,watchingyouplayyourgame,Ibegintofeelthewishtobesingledout;tobesummoned,tobecalledawaybyonepersonwhocomestofindme,whoisattractedtowardsme,whocannotkeephimselffromme,butcomestowhereIsitonmygiltchair,withmyfrockbillowingroundmelikeaflower.Andwithdrawingintoanalcove,sittingaloneonabalconywetalktogether.

           ’Nowthetidesinks.Nowthetreescometoearth;thebriskwavesthatslapmyribsrockmoregently,andmyheartridesatanchor,likeasailing-boatwhosesailsslideslowlydownontothewhitedeck.Thegameisover.Wemustgototeanow.’

           ’Theboastingboys,’saidLouis,’havegonenowinavastteamtoplaycricket.Theyhavedrivenoffintheirgreatbrake,singinginchorus.Alltheirheadsturnsimultaneouslyatthecornerbythelaurelbushes.Nowtheyareboasting.Larpent’sbrotherplayedfootballforOxford;Smith’sfathermadeacenturyatLords.