Pickthorn Manor: 33

Amy Lowell

Herself about him like a flowering vine,
 Drawing his lips to cling upon her own.
A ray of sunlight pierced the leaves to shine
 Where her half-opened bodice let be shown
Her white throat fluttering to his soft caress,
 Half-gasping with her gladness.  And her pledge
    She whispers, melting with delight.  A twig
 Snaps in the hornbeam hedge.
A cackling laugh tears through the quietness.
Eunice starts up in terrible distress.
    “My God!  What’s that?”  Her staring eyes are big.

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