"But when its sun shines on it, through its whole dead crust a throbbing
yearning wakes: the trees feel him, and every knot and bud swell, aching
to open to him. The brown seeds, who have slept deep under the ground,
feel him, and he gives them strength, till they break through the frozen
earth, and lift two tiny, trembling green hands in love to him. And he
touches the water, till down to its depths it feels him and melts, and it
flows, and the things, strange sweet things that were locked up in it, it
sings as it runs, for love of him. Each plant tries to bear at least one
fragrant little flower for him; and the world that was dead lives, and the
heart that was dead and self-centred throbs, with an upward, outward
yearning, and it has become that which it seemed impossible ever to become.
There, does that satisfy you?" she asked, looking down at Gregory. "Is
that how you like me to talk?"
"Oh, yes," said Gregory, "that is what I have already thought. We have the
same thoughts about everything. How strange!"
"Very," said Lyndall, working with her little toe at a stone in the ground
before her.
Gregory felt he must sustain the conversation. The only thing he could
think of was to recite a piece of poetry. He knew he had learnt many about
love; but the only thing that would come into his mind now was the "Battle
of Hohenlinden," and "Not a drum was heard," neither of which seemed to
bear directly on the subject on hand.
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