XIII


Summer nights and still water, and the woods endlessly still. No cry, no
footsteps from the road. My heart seemed full as with dark wine.

Moths and night-flies came flying noiselessly in through my window,
lured by the glow from the hearth and the smell of the bird I had just
cooked. They dashed against the roof with a dull sound, fluttered past
my ears, sending a cold shiver through me, and settled on my white
powder-horn on the wall. I watched them; they sat trembling and looked
at me--moths and spinners and burrowing things. Some of them looked like
pansies on the wing.

I stepped outside the hut and listened. Nothing, no noise; all was
asleep. The air was alight with flying insects, myriads of buzzing
wings. Out at the edge of the wood were ferns and aconite, the trailing
arbutus was in bloom, and I loved its tiny flowers... Thanks, my God,
for every heather bloom I have ever seen; they have been like small
roses on my way, and I weep for love of them... Somewhere near were
wild carnations; I could not see them, but I could mark their scent.

But now, in the night hours, great white flowers have opened suddenly;
their chalices are spread wide; they are breathing. And furry twilight
moths slip down into their petals, making the whole plant quiver. I go
from one flower to another. They are drunken flowers. I mark the stages
of their intoxication.

Light footsteps, a human breathing, a happy "_Godaften_."