Poetry Archives

“And is Sir Everard still unscathed?  I fain
 Would know the truth.”  “Quite well, dear Lady, quite.”
She smiled in her content.  “So many slain,
 You must forgive me for a little fright.”
And he forgave her, not alone for that,
 But because she was fingering his heart,
    Pressing and squeezing it, and thinking so
 Only to ease her smart
Of painful, apprehensive longing.  At
Their feet the river swirled and chucked.  They sat
    An hour there.  The thrush flew to and fro.