Pickthorn Manor: 47

Amy Lowell

Swaying and catching at the seat, she tried
 To speak, but only gurgled in her throat.
At last, straining to hold herself, she cried
 To him for pity, and her strange words smote
A coldness through him, for she begged Gervase
 To leave her, ’twas too much a second time.
    Gervase must go, always Gervase, her mind
 Repeated like a rhyme
This name he did not know.  In sad amaze
He watched her, and that hunted, fearful gaze,
    So unremembering and so unkind.

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