She is from God’s world -- a direct disciple, I think, sent down to brighten our lives and teach us of higher things.To me she is beauty itself—the word came after her presence.Each time she smiles, I can only cry, and I think of something I read about the sadness of beauty: just to find it is not hard, but to bear it, that is impossible.If she were totally aware of the beauty she was creating, she would stop in awe of herself.She somehow makes life so much more than it is.
"Read me LEAVES OF GRASS," Harold pleaded -
And she began,
"I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the Spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and
the women my sisters..."
She looked at him, his eyes dewy, hugging himself, as if he were being filled to bursting. He was too different to be accepted by anyone but another living oddity. She had to put her love somewhere, or it would dry up. Maybe that's what love is– walking willingly into the unknown for the sake of the other. The sheen in his eyes told her he absorbed it like a thirsty desert.