a dedication

My Dear Lucy,
    I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand, a word you say, but I shall still be
                                                                                           your affectionate Godfather,
                                                                                                                      C. S. Lewis

a dedication

My Dear Lucy,
    I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand, a word you say, but I shall still be
                                                                                           your affectionate Godfather,
                                                                                                                      C. S. Lewis

Neruda.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines
To think that I do not have her.
To feel that I have lost her
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her
And the verse falls to the soul, like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter if my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
This is all.
In the distance, my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her
My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her and she is not with me
The same night, whitening the same trees.
We of that time are no longer the same.

Neruda.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines
To think that I do not have her.
To feel that I have lost her
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her
And the verse falls to the soul, like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter if my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
This is all.
In the distance, my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her
My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her and she is not with me
The same night, whitening the same trees.
We of that time are no longer the same.