All its shining, and sweetening, and growing were so forced into accord with himself that the whole wood took, as it were, the motion of his own soul.

Jerome looked at a fine young poplar-tree, and saw not a tree but a maid, revealing with innocent helplessness her white body through her skirts of transparent green.

The branches flung out towards him like a maiden's arms, with shy intent of caresses.

Every little flower upon which his idle gaze fell was no flower, but an eye of love--a bird called to his mate with the call of his own heart.

Every sight, and sound, and sweetness of the wood wooed and tempted him, with the reflex motion of his own new ardor of love and passion.