“Easily,” he replied. “I can imagine how the firelight would dance upon your hair.”
“That doesn’t sound like me at all,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “Can you imagine me, looking sleepy and cross, giving you early breakfast before you went to work?”
“I can imagine you with the sun behind you, saying good-morning, so that the word seemed like a blessing through the day.”
“It’s a lie—you poet,” she said. “Why don’t you open your eyes and see me as I am?”
“I’ve had my eyes open all along. It’s you who are blind.”
“Then—suppose we become both lovers and friends.... Suppose we get married on Tuesday....”
To-morrow I will don my cloak
Of opal-grey, and I will stand
Where the palm shadows stride like smoke
Across the dazzle of the sand.