SPRING ... a Southern city in song. A city drifting fading into the wide arms of earth, into trees, fields running under grass, into trees, into high thrusts of earth, into trees, trees. The city a raised shadow upon earth. Against earth’s sweep through the Precinct of suns and stars, apart from sun and stars—blotch of hard houses leaning back upon the dead days of their makers—whole city leaning back, falling away from the wide freedom of sun, earth, stars, twirling together locked. And they two ... man and girl ... clasped in the steadfast spin of life—sun stars earth dust—that swung away from the city.
Fanny Dirk was on her back. Under: grass, roots thrusting up in erection, spilling in bud. Over: he. Under and over: One. She was viced in One: Grass, hair, fingers, twigs broken to leaf, lips and earth hot against her.... One. She was surrounded by One. She was beyond distinctions. She was One. She was in ecstasy....
Then they walked to their horses on the distant road.
A house, coddling itself warm, despite bright elms, in its shadows of men, cast a grey finger up from the Town to the young man’s mind. His house ... running no longer away from the immobile dance of earth and sun ... reached up now, arrogant, clambered with its long harsh shadows into the mind and mood of his mother’s and father’s son.
“Fanny!”
—Harry, Harry.... O you ... you my life!
“Fanny, now we must get married.”
—Hush! I hate you. How can you speak so now?
“Why are you silent, Fanny? I’m a gentleman, little girl. Don’t think I respect you less, because you love me.... I love you ... we....”