his lap, bending forward
in an instinctive effort to protect it.

The warm, loving, sawing voice went on. "Are you writing another poem,
David? Why, I thought you'd given that up!"

"It's ... it's nothing, really, uh ... Leonora. Nothing much. Just a ...
a thing I've had running around my head. Wanted to get rid of it."

His wife leaned over and kissed his cheek clumsily. "Why, you old big
dear! I'll bet it's for me. Isn't it, David? Isn't it for me?"

He shook his head in almost desperate regret. "I'm ... I'm afraid not,
uh--" Snorer. "It's about something else, Leonora."

"Oh." She came around the chair, and he furtively wiped his cheek with
a hasty hand. She sat down facing him, smiling with entreaty. "Would you
read it to me anyway, David? Please, dear?"

"Well, it's not ... not finished yet--not right."

"You don't have to, David. It's not important. Not really." She sighed
deeply.

He picked up the notebook, his breath cold in his constricted throat.
"All right," he said, the words coming out huskily, "I'll read it. But
it's not finished yet."

"If you don't want to--"

* * * * *

He began to read hurriedly, his eyes locked on the notebook, his voice a
suppressed hoarse, spasmodic whisper.

"_Such citadels of our kind's own
As fortify no peace._

"_No wall can offer shelter,
No roof can shield from pain.
We cannot rest; we are the damned;
We must go forth again._

"_Unnumbered we must--_"

"David, are you sure about those last lines?" She smiled apologetically.
"I know I'm old-fashioned, but couldn't you change that? It seems so ...
so harsh. And I think you may have unconsciously borrowed it from
someone else. I can't help thinking I've heard it before, somewhere?
Don't you think so?"

"I don't know, dear. You may be right about that word, but it doesn't
really matter, does it? I mean, I'm not going to try to get it
published, or anything."

"_I_ know, dear, but still--"

He was looking at her desperately.

"I'm sorry, dear!" she said contritely. "Please go on. Don't pay any
attention to my stupid comments."

"They're not stupid--"

"Please, dear. Go on."

His fingers clamped on the edge of the notebook.

"_Unnumbered we must wander,
Break, and bleed, and die.
Implacable as ocean,
Our tide must drown the sky._

"_What is our expiation,
For what primeval crime,
That we must go on marching