Their Lips Brushed Like Young Wild Flowers

Having Once Found The Intensity Of Art, Nothing Else That Can Happen In Life Can Ever Again Seem As Important As The Creative Process.

She Was A Mischief, And That Was A Satisfaction; No Longer Was She A Huntress Of Corralled Game

Life Plays The Same Lovely And Agonizing Joke On All Of Us.

Her Fine High Forehead Sloped Gently Up To Where Her Hair, Bordering It Like An Armorial Shield, Burst Into Lovelocks And Waves And Curlicues Of Ash Blonde And Gold. Her Eyes Were Bright, Big, Clear, Wet And Shining, The Colour Of Her Cheeks Was Real, Breaking Close To The Surface From The Strong Young Pump Of Her Heart. Her Body Hovered Delicately On The Last Edge Of Childhood -- She Was Almost Eighteen, Nearly Complete, But The Dew Was Still On Her.

Angry, And Half In Love With Her, And Tremendously Sorry, I Turned Away.