A gradual warmth, a languorous weariness passed over him descending along his spine from his closely cowled head.  He felt it descend and, seeing himself as he lay, smiled.  Soon he would sleep.

He had written verses for her again after ten years.  Ten years before she had worn her shawl cowlwise about her head, sending sprays of her warm breath into the night air, tapping her foot upon the glassy road.  It was the last tram; the lank brown horses knew it and shook their bells to the clear night in admonition.  The conductor talked with the driver, both nodding often in the green light of the lamp.  They stood on the steps of the tram, he on the upper, she on the lower.  She came up to his step many times between their phrases and went down again and once or twice remained beside him forgetting to go down and then went down.  Let be!  Let be!

Ten years from that wisdom of children to his folly.  If he sent her the verses?  They would be read out at breakfast amid the tapping of egg-shells.  Folly indeed!  Her brothers would laugh and try to wrest the page from each other with their strong hard fingers.  The suave priest, her uncle, seated in his arm-chair, would hold the page at arm’s length, read it smiling and approve of the literary form.

No, no; that was folly.  Even if he sent her the verses she would not show them to others.  No, no; she could not.

He began to feel that he had wronged her.  A sense of her innocence moved him almost to pity her, an innocence he had never understood till he had come to the knowledge of it through sin, an innocence which she too had not understood while she was innocent or before the strange humiliation of her nature had first come upon her.  Then first her soul had begun to live as his soul had when he had first sinned, and a tender compassion filled his heart as he remembered her frail pallor and her eyes, humbled and saddened by the dark shame of womanhood.

While his soul had passed from ecstasy to languor where had she been?  Might it be, in the mysterious ways of spiritual life, that her soul at those same moments had been conscious of his homage?  It might be.

A glow of desire kindled again his soul and fired and fulfilled all his body.  Conscious of his desire she was waking from odorous sleep, the temptress of his villanelle.  Her eyes, dark and with a look of languor, were opening to his eyes.  Her nakedness yielded to him, radiant, warm, odorous and lavish-limbed, enfolded him like a shining cloud, enfolded him like water with a liquid life; and like a cloud of vapour or like waters circumfluent in space the liquid letters of speech, symbols of the element of mystery, flowed forth over his brain.

    Are you not weary of ardent ways,
    Lure of the fallen seraphim? 
    Tell no more of enchanted days.

    Your eyes have set man’s heart ablaze
    And you have had your will of him. 
    Are you not weary of ardent ways?