DON'T KNOW WHAT THIS IS, REALLY : JUST ARIEL'S STUFF, I GUESS
THE TRYST We sat in our favourite place, on that rough hewn stone: hard by the willow tree, that cast dappled shadows over us, and the other stones about that place. She had looked wan and pale of late; fragile and ephemeral. But now there was a fresh bloom on her cheek, and her lovely eyes were lambent with the light of love – and of a strange, and slightly disturbing aura of anticipation. Her lips met mine: sweet as honeysuckle; light and gentle as the caress of butterfly's wings; soft as the... Sign in to see full entry.