We could go inside, Barnaby would have quipped, if he could not already predict Fortitude’s counter to that too: no doubt then they would shock his pretty sisters. That, he supposed he understood – the fairer sex, and whatnot – but Greengrass was blushing a little much for his own good. Barnaby was almost concerned about him.
“Ah,” Barnaby granted him, supposing he understood part of it now. That had not changed with the times: women were much less likely to publish to begin with, and anything they did would not be so free in theme. Still, Greengrass had promised him love poetry and Mrs. Sonnets From The Portuguese had so far disappointed on that score.
So. “You mustn’t mind the neighbours,” Barnaby countered, drifting up to a sitting position. “Have you not anything a little more – stimulating? ‘Love's mysteries in souls do grow / But yet the body is his book’... Donne’s The Extasie,” he quoted pointedly. (Since becoming a ghost, Barnaby had been rather more taken with talk of souls.) Granted, Donne had said a fair amount in that poem about metaphysical unions as well as bodily ones – but nevertheless. It was still a more sensual poem than Greengrass’ offering.
“Have you any Donne? To His Mistress Going To Bed?” Barnaby suggested keenly. “Or Marlowe’s Hero and Leander – or, better yet, have you a mistress of your own?” (It might not necessarily be publishable work, but if Greengrass had a paramour she could probably be persuaded to write him some.)
“Ah,” Barnaby granted him, supposing he understood part of it now. That had not changed with the times: women were much less likely to publish to begin with, and anything they did would not be so free in theme. Still, Greengrass had promised him love poetry and Mrs. Sonnets From The Portuguese had so far disappointed on that score.
So. “You mustn’t mind the neighbours,” Barnaby countered, drifting up to a sitting position. “Have you not anything a little more – stimulating? ‘Love's mysteries in souls do grow / But yet the body is his book’... Donne’s The Extasie,” he quoted pointedly. (Since becoming a ghost, Barnaby had been rather more taken with talk of souls.) Granted, Donne had said a fair amount in that poem about metaphysical unions as well as bodily ones – but nevertheless. It was still a more sensual poem than Greengrass’ offering.
“Have you any Donne? To His Mistress Going To Bed?” Barnaby suggested keenly. “Or Marlowe’s Hero and Leander – or, better yet, have you a mistress of your own?” (It might not necessarily be publishable work, but if Greengrass had a paramour she could probably be persuaded to write him some.)
