XXXVIII THE LITTLE HOUSE
Mitchell S. (Mitchell Starrett) Buck translation
THE little house where he has his bed is the prettiest in the world. It is made from the branches of trees, four walls of dried earth and a roof of thatch.
I love it, for there we have slept since the nights have grown cold; and as the nights become still colder, they become longer also. When the day comes, I am very weary.
The mattress lies upon the ground; two covers of black wool shut in our bodies which warm each other. His chest presses against my breasts. My heart throbs....
He clasps me so vigorously that he bruises me, poor little girl that I am; but when he is within me I know nothing more of the world, and one could cut off my limbs without awakening me from my delight.