I Have Been Loved,' She Said, 'by

When Autumn Shadows Throw Their Patterns Across The Land, They Are Not The Images Of Fragile, Dying Leaves, Not The Bared Arms Of Lofty Elms, Not Shadows Of A Fading Summer; But Swinging Shapes As Of Books Upon A Strap, Of Round And Square Boxes Held Under An Arm, Of Hurrying Little People Heading Towards The Nearest School.

One Must Not Look Inward Too Much, While The Inside Is Yet Tender. I Do Not Wish To Frighten Myself Until I Can Stand It.

I Couldn't Ever Boil Potatoes Over The Heat Of Your Affection. Your Love Would Never Bridge A Gap; It Wouldn't Even Fill Up The Hole That The Mice Came Through.

An Image Is A Stop The Mind Makes Between Uncertainties.

Our Bones Ache Only While The Flesh Is On Them. Stretch It As Thin As The Temple Flesh Of An Ailing Woman And Still It Serves To Ache The Bone And To Move The Bone About; And In Like Manner The Night Is A Skin Pulled Over The Head Of Day That The Day May Be In A Torment. We Will Find No Comfort Until The Night Melts Away; Until The Fury Of The Night Rots Out Its Fire.