Pickthorn Manor: 46

Amy Lowell

But he had seen her as she swiftly ran,
 A flash of white against the river’s grey.
“Eunice,” he called.  “My Darling.  Eunice.  Can
 You hear me?  It is Everard.  All day
I have been riding like the very devil
 To reach you sooner.  Are you startled, Dear?”
    He broke into a run and followed her,
 And caught her, faint with fear,
Cowering and trembling as though she some evil
Spirit were seeing.  “What means this uncivil
    Greeting, Dear Heart?”  He saw her senses blur.

Index + Blog :

Poetry Archive Index | Blog : Poem of the Day