My blood was in a fervent within me, my heart full of longing, sweetly and foolishly; I was all expectancy and wonder; I was tremulous and waiting; my fancy fluttered about the same images like martins round a bell tower at dawn; I dreamed and was sad and sometimes cried. But through the tears and the melancholy, inspired by the beauty of verse or the beauty of the evening, there always rose upwards, like the grasses of early spring, shoots of happy feeling, of young and surging life.