Always marry an April girl

Oh had I a golden thread

And then she clearly understood if he was fire, oh then she must be wood

Joan of Arc, Leonard Cohen

There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.

The Journals of Sylvia Plath 1950-62

Jo Ann Kemmerling reading a book while taking a bath, Nina Leen, 1954

With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her read
Her bible on hot Sunday afternoons,
And loved the book, when she had dropped asleep
And made of it a pillow for her head.

The Prelude, William Wordsworth