Poetry of the legends part 2
Pickthorn Manor - Amy Lowell
I
How fresh the Dartle's little waves that day! A
steely silver, underlined with blue,
And flashing where the round clouds, blown away, Let drop the
yellow sunshine to gleam through
And tip the edges of the waves with shifts And spots of whitest
fire, hard like gems
Cut from the midnight moon they were, and sharp As
wind through leafless stems.
The Lady Eunice walked between the drifts
Of blooming cherry-trees, and watched the rifts
Of clouds drawn through the river's azure warp.
II
Her little feet tapped softly down the path. Her
soul was listless; even the morning breeze
Fluttering the trees and strewing a light swath Of fallen petals
on the grass, could please
Her not at all. She brushed a hair aside With a
swift move, and a half-angry frown.
She stopped to pull a daffodil or two, And
held them to her gown
To test the colours; put them at her side,
Then at her breast, then loosened them and tried
Some new arrangement, but it would not do.
III
A lady in a Manor-house, alone, Whose husband
is in Flanders with the Duke
Of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, she's grown Too apathetic
even to rebuke
Her idleness. What is she on this Earth? No woman
surely, since she neither can
Be wed nor single, must not let her mind Build
thoughts upon a man
Except for hers. Indeed that were no dearth
Were her Lord here, for well she knew his worth,
And when she thought of him her eyes were kind.
IV
Too lately wed to have forgot the wooing. Too
unaccustomed as a bride to feel
Other than strange delight at her wife's doing. Even at the
thought a gentle blush would steal
Over her face, and then her lips would frame Some little word
of loving, and her eyes
Would brim and spill their tears, when all they
saw Was the bright sun, slantwise
Through burgeoning trees, and all the morning's flame
Burning and quivering round her. With quick shame
She shut her heart and bent before the law.
V
He was a soldier, she was proud of that. This
was his house and she would keep it well.
His honour was in fighting, hers in what He'd left her here
in charge of. Then a spell
Of conscience sent her through the orchard spying Upon the
gardeners. Were their tools about?
Were any branches broken? Had the
weeds Been duly taken out
Under the 'spaliered pears, and were these lying
Nailed snug against the sunny bricks and drying
Their leaves and satisfying all their needs?
VI
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."
VII
The Lady Eunice caught a willow spray To save
herself from tumbling in the shallows
Which rippled to her feet. Then straight away She
peered down stream among the budding sallows.
A youth in leather breeches and a shirt Of finest broidered
lawn lay out upon
An overhanging bole and deftly swayed A
well-hooked fish which shone
In the pale lemon sunshine like a spurt
Of silver, bowed and damascened, and girt
With crimson spots and moons which waned and
played.
VIII
The fish hung circled for a moment, ringed And
bright; then flung itself out, a thin blade
Of spotted lightning, and its tail was winged With chipped
and sparkled sunshine. And the shade
Broke up and splintered into shafts of light Wheeling about
the fish, who churned the air
And made the fish-line hum, and bent the rod Almost
to snapping. Care
The young man took against the twigs, with slight,
Deft movements he kept fish and line in tight
Obedience to his will with every prod.
IX
He lay there, and the fish hung just beyond. He
seemed uncertain what more he should do.
He drew back, pulled the rod to correspond, Tossed it and caught
it; every time he threw,
He caught it nearer to the p
