A sigh, a soft moaning sound, a rustle as of garments, and she stood before him.
He had not been embarrassed by the voice, but now his heart began to beat, and he said, quite as he had meant to when he first went into the house:
‘Is there anything I can do to help you settle?’
That was an absurd thing to say to this slim, wistful girl, who stood looking at him. It was the natural boy asserting itself against the unknown, the unexpected.
Then he turned his head and looked into her eyes. They were the sweetest eyes he had ever seen. He had never before looked deep into any human eyes.
Then, home and circumstances, field and world, all became to him a dream, and only this maiden without a voice, this voice floating into empty air, became to him his world.
Outside, the apple-blossoms floated down from her trees to his land, the potatoes lay unplanted. Vainly that night the cows waited for his hand to milk them. The real had become the shadow; he was in a new world. Illusive voice! vanishing shape to deal with!
Within, a wild delicious hope that he, he might at last unite voice and shape.
So from the plough-boy is the poet born.