"Oh, I do. I do!" Her voice carried the lilt of youth in it.
The silences that frequently spiced their conversation had no embarrassed elements in them; they said as much as words, and they came mutually.
"Some of it was sad. The poetry. I mean, the deep kind of sadness, the real sadness, the kind that has—hopelessness, and lostness, and aloneness in it.
"Here he lies where he longed to be.
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill."
She caught her breath, sharply. "That kind of sadness. The kind that says something about us. How we've dreamed and planned of going Home—"
She let her voice drift.
"I sometimes think Earth is such a beautiful place that you have to be dead to go there."