If I Die Before I Say 'i

A Cold Supper, Were You Thinking? I Asked Dubiously. I Was Not, He Said Firmly, I Mean To Light A Roaring Fire In The Kitchen Hearth, Fry Up A Dozen Eggs In Butter, And Eat Them All, Then Lay Ye Down On The Hearth Rug And Roger Ye 'till You - Is That All Right? He Inquired, Noticing My Look. 'til I What? I Asked Fascinated By His Description Of The Evening's Program. 'til Ye Burst Into Flame And Take Me With Ye, I Suppose, He Said, And Stooping, Swooped Me Up Into His Arms And Carried Me Across The Darkened Threshold.

Sometimes,' He Whispered At Last, 'sometimes, I Dream I Am Singing, And I Wake From It With My Throat Aching.' He Couldn't See Her Face, Or The Tears That Prickled At The Corners Of Her Eyes. 'what Do You Sing?' She Whispered Back. She Heard The Shush Of The Linen Pillow As He Shook His Head. 'no Song I've Ever Heard, Or Know,' He Said Softly. 'but I Know I'm Singing It For You.

Does It Ever Stop? The Wanting You?" "even When I've Just Left Ye. I Want You So Much My Chest Feels Tight And My Fingers Ache With Wanting To Touch Ye Again.

When You're Reading, You're Not Where You Are; You're In The Book. By The Same Token, I Can Write Anywhere.

Lying On The Floor, With The Carved Panels Of The Ceiling Flickering Dimly Above, I Found Myself Thinking That I Had Always Heretofore Assumed That The Tendency Of Eigh­teenth-century Ladies To Swoon Was Due To Tight Stays; Now I Rather Thought It Might Be Due To The Idiocy Of Eighteenth-century Men.