Pickthorn Manor: 09

Amy Lowell

He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond.
 He seemed uncertain what more he should do.
He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond,
 Tossed it and caught it; every time he threw,
He caught it nearer to the point.  At last
 The fish was near enough to touch.  He paused.
    Eunice knew well the craft— “What’s got the thing!”
 She cried.  “What can have caused—
Where is his net?  The moment will be past.
The fish will wriggle free.”  She stopped aghast.
    He turned and bowed.  One arm was in a sling.

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