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Автор: Mary Shelley

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The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring
bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud.
I was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had
pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off,
with an invincible burden.
Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my
feelings: he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the
sensations that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on
this occasion were truly astonishing: his conversation was full
of imagination; and very often, in imitation of the Persian and
Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion.
At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew me out
into arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity.
We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants
were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own
spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled
joy and hilarity.

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