Poetry Archives

Black-hearts and white-hearts, bubbled with the sun,
 Hid in their leaves and knocked against each other.
Eunice was standing, panting with her run
 Up to the tool-house just to get another
Basket.  All those which she had brought were filled,
 And still Gervase pelted her from above.
    The buckles of his shoes flashed higher and higher
 Until his shoulders strove
Quite through the top.  “Eunice, your spirit’s filled
This tree.  White-hearts!”  He shook, and cherries spilled
    And spat out from the leaves like falling fire.