Pickthorn Manor: 30

Amy Lowell

The wide, sun-winged June morning spread itself
 Over the quiet garden.  And they packed
Full twenty baskets with the fruit.  “My shelf
 Of cordials will be stored with what it lacked.
In future, none of us will drink strong ale,
 But cherry-brandy.”  “Vastly good, I vow,”
    And Gervase gave the tree another shake.
 The cherries seemed to flow
Out of the sky in cloudfuls, like blown hail.
Swift Lady Eunice ran, her farthingale,
    Unnoticed, tangling in a fallen rake.

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