She laughed, flushing. “You will be forever at your foolishness, Kenn. I thought you meant the tree tips.”
“Is the truth foolishness?”
“You are a lover, Kennie. Other folks don’t see that when they look at me.”
“Other folks are blind,” I maintained, stoutly.
“If you see all that I will be sure that what they say is true and love is blind.”
“The wise man is the lover. He sees clear for the first time in his life. The sun shines for him—and her. For them the birds sing and the flowers bloom. For them the world was made. They——”
“Whiles talk blethers,” she laughed.
“Yes, they do,” I admitted. “And there again is another sign of wisdom. Your ponderous fool talks pompous sense always. He sees life in only one facet. Your lover sees its many sides, its infinite variety. He can laugh and weep; his imagination lights up dry facts with whimsical fancies; he dives through the crust of conventionality to the realities of life. ’Tis the lover keeps this old world young. The fire of youth, of eternal laughing youth, runs flaming through his blood. His days are radiant, his nights enchanted.”
“I am thinking you quite a poet.”
“Was there ever a better subject for a poem? Life would be poetry writ into action if all men were lovers—and all women Aileens.”