I was glad as I could be to view once more the
tossing cornfields and the wind at play with shadow. Near and far,
woods and pastures smoked beneath the sun. I know not through how many
arches of the elms and green folds of the meadows I kept watch on the
chimneys of a farmhouse above its trees.
But Reverie, the further we journeyed, the less he said. I almost
chafed to see his heedless eyes turned upon some inward dream, while
here, like life itself, stood cloud and oak, warbled bird and brook
beneath the burning sun. I saw again in memory the silver twilight of
the moon, and the crazy face of Love's Warrior, haunter of shade. Let
him but venture into the open, I thought, hear again the distant
lowing of the oxen, the rooks cawing in the elms, see again the flocks
upon the hillside!
I suppose this was her home my heart had turned to. This was my dust;
night's was his. For me the wild rose and the fields of harvest; for
him closed petals, the chantry of the night wind, phantom lutes and
voices. And, as if he had overheard my thoughts, Reverie turned at the
cross-ways.
"You will come back again," he said.
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