I hear it in the deep heart's core."


He murmured the words over softly to himself. The emotion that produced
Innisfree passed strongly through him. He too would be over the hills
and far away. He craved movement, change, adventure--somewhere far from
shops and crowds and motor-'busses. For a week the fog had stifled
London. This wind brought life.

Where should he go? Desire was long; his purse was short.

He glanced at his books, letters, newspapers. They had no interest now.
Instead he listened. The panorama of other journeys rolled in colour
through the little room, flying on one another's heels. Henriot enjoyed
this remembered essence of his travels more than the travels themselves.
The crying wind brought so many voices, all of them seductive:

There was a soft crashing of waves upon the Black Sea shores, where the
huge Caucasus beckoned in the sky beyond; a rustling in the umbrella
pines and cactus at Marseilles, whence magic steamers start about the
world like flying dreams. He heard the plash of fountains upon Mount
Ida's slopes, and the whisper of the tamarisk on Marathon. It was dawn
once more upon the Ionian Sea, and he smelt the perfume of the Cyclades.
Blue-veiled islands melted in the sunshine, and across the dewy lawns of
Tempe, moistened by the spray of many waterfalls, he saw--Great Heavens
above!--the dancing of white forms ... or was it only mist the sunshine
painted against Pelion?... "Methought, among the lawns together, we
wandered underneath the young grey dawn. And multitudes of dense white
fleecy clouds shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind...."