Poetry Archives

Softly he spoke to her, patiently dealt
 With what he feared her madness.  By and by
He pierced her understanding.  Then he knelt
 Upon the seat, and took her hands:  “Now try
To think a minute I am come, my Dear,
 Unharmed and back on furlough.  Are you glad
    To have your lover home again?  To me,
 Pickthorn has never had
A greater pleasantness.  Could you not bear
To come and sit awhile beside me here?
    A stone between us surely should not be.”