XVI
Under the orchard trees daffodils danced And
jostled, turning sideways to the wind.
A dropping cherry petal softly glanced Over her hair, and slid
away behind.
At the far end through twisted cherry-trees The old house glowed,
geranium-hued, with bricks
Bloomed in the sun like roses, low and long, Gabled,
and with quaint tricks
Of chimneys carved and fretted. Out of these
Grey smoke was shaken, which the faint Spring breeze
Tossed into nothing. Then a thrushs
song
XVII
Needled its way through sound of bees and river. The
notes fell, round and starred, between young leaves,
Trilled to a spiral lilt, stopped on a quiver. The Lady Eunice
listens and believes.
Gervase has many tales of her dear Lord, His bravery, his knowledge,
his charmed life.
She quite forgets whos speaking in the gladness Of
being this mans wife.
Gervase is wounded, grave indeed, the word
Is kindly said, but to a softer chord
She strings her voice to ask with wistful sadness,
XVIII
And is Sir Everard still unscathed? I
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