The way James sees Lily; that's what they call poetry. When he looks at her, he sees the finery of royalty. He sees in her gilded silver thrones and wax seals, cool mists of perfume and crisp linens. She is perfectly pristine in public, but it's when they're at home that he sees the effortless grace that looks like the easiest thing in the world, but really is impossible to imitate, the same thing that he finds in a book that somebody took the time to bind in leather. Her skin is marble, if marble could blush or smile, and her hair brings to mind spools of thread and Indian spices. But her eyes are James's favorite part of the poem; they are pools of green ink that someone spilled from the pot. He sees her in the words of books, old and new, and in messy scrawl on parchment.
The way Lily sees James is more like an exceptional cup of tea. The way he messes up his already untidy hair- that's the bit of tea that takes getting used to, the part that makes little children wrinkle their noses at first but winds up being the reason it becomes their ritual the rest of their lives. In his arms she finds a familiar warmth and comfort, and when he's not faking for his friends, he's really an old softy. And that softness is that feeling that she finds herself aching for on a particularly cold day when she passes by a café. His eyes are bright hazel, more brown than green, and it reminds her of that mint chocolate that's always so pleasing to find waiting on the rim of the saucer. His smile is slightly crooked, but sincere. It's one of those things she savors because, like a perfect cup of tea, it's a rare thing that she never ever wants to end.
The thing that both Lily and James see is the same thing that everybody knows which is, of course, that tea and poetry go together better than anything in the world.