Pickthorn Manor: 02

Amy Lowell

Her little feet tapped softly down the path.
 Her soul was listless; even the morning breeze
Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath
 Of fallen petals on the grass, could please
Her not at all.  She brushed a hair aside
 With a swift move, and a half-angry frown.
    She stopped to pull a daffodil or two,
 And held them to her gown
To test the colours; put them at her side,
Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried
    Some new arrangement, but it would not do.

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