She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.
--Robert Graves

Languidly re-reading A.S. Byatt's Possession (in which the above is quoted). I've taken to marking it up this time around, a habit I tend to reserve for books I truly feel some attachment to. You should see my poor dog-eared, water-marked, underlined copy of The English Patient. The wounds it bears from me stabbing at it with my pencil are nothing short of impressive. There are drawings in it. Musings in the margins. A ghostly imprint of a spider crushed between two pages. All in all, it's in bad shape. But I love it so.

Speaking of books and writing, Rachel and I have started working on the fairy tale again. This makes me inordinately happy.