Crashaw's Diary (part iii)

Thursday 8th September
Today I saw Lizzie Harvey tripping down the hillside in the cool autumn air. Her motion in the sunlight reminded me of things in the bright underwater, as if she moved rippling through a more buoyant element. Her feet struck the ground with the lightest of blows, like a string of gentle puns all on the same subject as she stepped down the hillside. Raising her arms as she went, each white forearm was like a humorous poem, starting at the firm foundation of her elbow, and moving up through her slender wrist to the most fanciful conclusions, the tips of her gay fingers. And then, as she drew closer, here were the fine line of her nose, those dark eyelashes that “keep a lid” on her warm humorous eyes, her dusting of freckles, her anecdotal chin. I waited for her at the road and she greeted me warmly.

I accompanied her some of the way to K--- and we talked of their farm’s drainage problems. At times I barely could speak for feeling. As we were parting she clasped my hand warmly and asked: Would I think of her sometimes? I assured her I would.

Oh Lizzie! Lizzie! I will think of you in the morning when the rising sun wakes the little puns on the branches, and the little jokes start in the wet, dewy grass. Oh, my dear Lizzie! I will think of you then.