I watched last year's Jane Eyre this evening and my heart is adrift in the muck of romanticism and the flight of a soul on the wings of passion. So I plucked an old book from my shelf - one given to me over ten years ago that I still treasure. It is a beautiful book indeed. Its binding and printing, something of a marvel to me all these years. Mostly due to the red and black, two-tone printing which I presumed a rarity for the print date: 1905. The "life pictures" are also a thing of simultaneous amusement and captive dreaming for me whenever I pick it up. I am doubtful now, that either of these things truly made this a needle in the haystack of the Bay Area used book marketplace, but I delight in it none-the-less.
To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes,
I mean to weld our faces - through the dense
Incalculable darkness make pretense
That she has risen from her reveries
To mate her dreams with mine in marriages
Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease
Of every longing nerve of indolence, -
Lift from the graver her quiet lips, and stun
My senses with her kisses - drawl the glee
Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly,
Across mine own, forgetful if is done
The old love's awful dawn-time when said we,
"To-day is ours!" . . . . Ah, Heaven! can it be
She has forgotten me - forgotten me!