Her face was one, God-made, for the stirring of hearts and dream; to inspire art, novels, and romance’s essence written and told, and forever held, in eyes and features of her face.
She possessed face of gift and inspirations, eyes of endless depths that when you looked into and thought you found their end, there appeared new light and shade: new depth of further mysteries.
She was spirit and heart that takes lifetime to learn, love, and tell its story true. So that is what he did.
Poems at first, then stories leading on to greater works; and in them all, when finished and examined secondhand, it was never he one read or felt or knew when the telling had been told. It was her.
The stories were never his. They were always hers, the ones he found—written, waiting and told—in the infinite of eyes.