Pickthorn Manor: 01

Amy Lowell

How fresh the Dartle’s little waves that day!
 A steely silver, underlined with blue,
And flashing where the round clouds, blown away,
 Let drop the yellow sunshine to gleam through
And tip the edges of the waves with shifts
 And spots of whitest fire, hard like gems
    Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp
 As wind through leafless stems.
The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts
Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts
    Of clouds drawn through the river’s azure warp.

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