Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.
Lingering by the doorway of the woods
by Ian Emberson
I was picking blackberries when I thought of the strange girl at the mental hospital.
Beautiful she was – quietly beautiful. Yes – and apparently nothing the matter with
her – except that she was scared to go outside, and scared to go indoors. And so she just sat there in a chair by the entrance door – she was there when I went in with the
library trolley : she was there when I came out. But that was thirty years ago. Odd
that I should have thought of her just then.