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"What's for dinner?" she asked, keeping a distance
in her tone.
Denzil tossed her a small, cloth-wrapped bundle of
dried rations. Gisella stared at the unappetizing pile
briefly, poking through it experimentally. While it cer-
tainly looked dull, it didn't look unhealthy, and she
had not eaten since breakfast. Gisella shrugged, and
soon was gnawing absentmindedly on a strip of beef,
made sufficiently tantalizing with spicy thoughts of
Denzil.
Afterward, Denzil settled back on one of the bed-
rolls he'd spread before the fire, picking his teeth with
a small, sharpened stick. Staring into the flames, he
said, "This night reminds me of my favorite poem. Do
you like poetry?" Without waiting for an answer, he
began reciting in a reverent voice, speaking in lively
bursts:
Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected
Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever
green,
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent
As glass, as the heart in repose this lasting day.
Beneath these branches the willing surrender of move-
ment,
The business of birdsong, of love, left on the borders
With all of the fevers, the failures of memory.
Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected.
And light upon light, light as dismissal of darkness,
Beneath these branches no shade, for shade is
forgotten
In the warmth of the light and the cool smell of the
leaves
Where we grow and decay; no longer, our trees ever
green.
Here there is quiet, where music turns in upon silence,
Here at the world's imagined edge, where clarity
Completes the senses, at long last where we behold
Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent
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