Poetry Archives

She gave a little cry and fell quite prone
 In the long grass, and lay there very still.
Gervase leapt from the tree at her soft moan,
 And kneeling over her, with clumsy skill
Unloosed her bodice, fanned her with his hat,
 And his unguarded lips pronounced his heart.
    “Eunice, my Dearest Girl, where are you hurt?”
 His trembling fingers dart
Over her limbs seeking some wound.  She strove
To answer, opened wide her eyes, above
    Her knelt Sir Everard, with face alert.