Pickthorn Manor: 14

Amy Lowell

He looked so rueful that she laughed out loud.
 “You are forgiven, Mr. Deane.  Even more,
I offer you the fishing, and am proud
 That you should find it pleasant from this shore.
Nobody fishes now, my husband used
 To angle daily, and I too with him.
    He loved the spotted trout, and pike, and dace.
 He even had a whim
That flies my fingers tied swiftly confused
The greater fish.  And he must be excused,
    Love weaves odd fancies in a lonely place.”

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