Pickthorn Manor: 37

Amy Lowell

Then shame swept over her and held her numb,
 Hiding her anguished face against the seat.
At last she rose, a woman stricken—dumb—
 And trailed away with slowly-dragging feet.
Gervase looked after her, but feared to pass
 The barrier set between them.  All his rare
    Joy broke to fragments—worse than that, unreal.
 And standing lonely there,
His swollen heart burst out, and on the grass
He flung himself and wept.  He knew, alas!
    The loss so great his life could never heal.

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