DOI Artikel:
"For ever and ever''
DOI Seite / Zitierlink: https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.21806#0176
“ For Ever and Ever ”
By c. s.
IN the cold grey dawn I sit up and lock at the woman by my
side. One soft little white hand peeps out from the dainty
lace, and on one finger is a gold ring. There is just such another
upon my own finger ; and these two rings bind us to one another
for ever and ever. And I am tired already.
She moves in her sleep, and buries her face deeper in the heavy
folds of the bed-clothes. The little hand is still out, and lies so
near me (so temptingly near, as I should have thought only a little
while ago) that I can trace the faint blue lines in it as I have done
many a time before. But now . . . how horrible it all seems !
She stirs again, and draws the hand into the lace so that it is
almost hidden. How pretty she looks ! . . . with her silky
brown hair. Ah, why do I find it so difficult to think of her,
even when she is before my eyes thus ? Why do I never think of
her when she is absent r Why do great masses of tumbling black
•* hair come into my mind, while I watch this soft brown tangle on
the pillow before me ? I have tried to beat down these thoughts
-—but they will come . . . and how can I help myself?
Look at her neck—how white it is ! And yet—and yet, why
does a warm brown something continually haunt me ? A living
something which brings with it the sun, the sky, and the sea ?
Our
By c. s.
IN the cold grey dawn I sit up and lock at the woman by my
side. One soft little white hand peeps out from the dainty
lace, and on one finger is a gold ring. There is just such another
upon my own finger ; and these two rings bind us to one another
for ever and ever. And I am tired already.
She moves in her sleep, and buries her face deeper in the heavy
folds of the bed-clothes. The little hand is still out, and lies so
near me (so temptingly near, as I should have thought only a little
while ago) that I can trace the faint blue lines in it as I have done
many a time before. But now . . . how horrible it all seems !
She stirs again, and draws the hand into the lace so that it is
almost hidden. How pretty she looks ! . . . with her silky
brown hair. Ah, why do I find it so difficult to think of her,
even when she is before my eyes thus ? Why do I never think of
her when she is absent r Why do great masses of tumbling black
•* hair come into my mind, while I watch this soft brown tangle on
the pillow before me ? I have tried to beat down these thoughts
-—but they will come . . . and how can I help myself?
Look at her neck—how white it is ! And yet—and yet, why
does a warm brown something continually haunt me ? A living
something which brings with it the sun, the sky, and the sea ?
Our