Pickthorn Manor: 45

Amy Lowell

Eunice paced up and down.  No joy she took
 At meeting Gervase, but the custom grown
Still held her.  He was late.  She sudden shook,
 And caught at her stopped heart.  Her eyes had shown
Sir Everard emerging from the mist.
 His uniform was travel-stained and torn,
    His jackboots muddy, and his eager stride
 Jangled his spurs.  A thorn
Entangled, trailed behind him.  To the tryst
He hastened.  Eunice shuddered, ran—a twist
    Round a sharp turning and she fled to hide.

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