And on their naked limbs the flowery roof
Showered roses. (She’s asleep!)”
Outside, unseen, the moon emerged from behind racing clouds, and lighted with its pale radiance the great stretch of winter-bound lake and desolate shore along which they had wandered that day seeking some response in its vast indifference; and its rays touched and silvered the roof-tree of the little house on the edge of a ravine, within whose doors, by the grace of the English poets, it was April. Blossom by blossom, about their couch, the spring began, and upon their naked limbs showered roses.
“No.” said Rose-Ann, “I’m not asleep!”
He laughed tenderly. “No, not now. But you have been for half an hour. I’ve been watching you sleep. You do it beautifully!”
“Have I really?” She stretched herself, like a kitten upon awaking from a nap. “Well, I’m awake now, and I want some more poetry. Something sad this time.”
“More poetry? What a glutton you are!”
“But I like poetry, Felix. It’s real to me—as real as our love.”
“But why sad poetry?” he teased.
“I don’t know. I suppose it’s because I’m so happy.”