Bitter disappointment pushed tears from her eyes.'Now what's wrong? I said you could wear it.'She drew in a shaky breath.'I w-wanted you to l-like my dreeessssss.'He moved his gaze over her.'The gown makes my mouth water, love.

You areas fleetingly beautifulas a mother’s tearsand a father’s pranksa brother’s bachelorhoodand a best friend’s bad mooda bride’s glittering jittersand a handsome stranger’s smile.

Your father is waiting, so fly up that mountain and through the alomb. Find Nardukha and tell him I have upheld my end of the bargain. Now it is his turn.”He stares at me, a dangerous light in his eye, and then his gaze travels beyond me, in the direction of the funeral. My hand moves to his muscled forearm, and I squeeze it.

I will tell him that I've always thought he was a monster. And that I want to be his bride.

Ho! Wise men say, 'He who hath not a good and ready memory should never meddle in telling lies.''Drew smiled. 'I have a good and ready memory.

The first time you see your grown-up little miss looking back at you from a sea of white chiffon or beaded satin glory, indeed your heart will skip a beat. You’ll find yourself blinking back tears. That elusive someday has suddenly become now. Your little girl—your jewel—is going to be a bride.

My father always wanted to be the corpse at every funeral, the bride at every wedding and the baby at every christening.

It was post war. It was very gray, very dreary. Everything was still rationed when I first saw the United States in 1951. I went over to visit my sister who was a war bride.

A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

A bride never forgets her wedding ornaments, why should we forsake our heavenly Father, the bridegroom?