Pickthorn Manor: 06

Amy Lowell

She picked a stone up with a little pout,
 Stones looked so ill in well-kept flower-borders.
Where should she put it?  All the paths about
 Were strewn with fair, red gravel by her orders.
No stone could mar their sifted smoothness.  So
 She hurried to the river.  At the edge
    She stood a moment charmed by the swift blue
 Beyond the river sedge.
She watched it curdling, crinkling, and the snow
Purfled upon its wave-tops.  Then, “Hullo,
    My Beauty, gently, or you’ll wriggle through.”

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