Pickthorn Manor: 44

Amy Lowell

One afternoon of grey clouds and white wind,
 Eunice awaited Gervase by the river.
The Dartle splashed among the reeds and whined
 Over the willow-roots, and a long sliver
Of caked and slobbered foam crept up the bank.
 All through the garden, drifts of skirling leaves
    Blew up, and settled down, and blew again.
 The cherry-trees were weaves
Of empty, knotted branches, and a dank
Mist hid the house, mouldy it smelt and rank
    With sodden wood, and still unfalling rain.

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