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O, know, sweet love, I always write of you, / And you and love are still my argument, / So all my best is dressing old words new, / Spending again what is already spent; / For as the sun is daily new and old, / So is my love still telling what is told.
Evelina lowered her lids while he read. It was a very beautiful evening, and Ann Eliza thought afterward how different life might have been with a companion who read poetry like Mr. Ramy.
I wrote and told you everything, Felice, that came into my mind at the time of writing. It is not everything, yet with some perception one can sense almost everything…. I don't doubt that you believe me, for if I did you would not be the one I love, and nothing would be free of doubt.
Everything Paige Turner thought about love, anything she felt about love, was inadequate and wrong. It didn't matter to her that in some way, from some point of view, someone couldn't actually be wrong about an inchoate thing like love. “An inchoate thing like love” is feeble language. If my language is feeble, Paige thought, isn't my love?
Love, are you feeble?
It was spring, and in the spring a young man's, a young woman's, heart turned heedlessly, helplessly, to love. Were those hearts skipping beats? Were eager suitors walking along broad avenues hoping beyond hope that at the next turn the love they had waited for all their lives would notice them and halt midstep or midsentence, dumbstruck? Were women and men, women and women, men and men, late at night, sitting