 | Eclogues and monodramas |  |
Now James had wrote to Mary he would come
The morrow; so he turned the question round
Thro' all that day and half a restless night
In sleep, that came, more hateful than unrest,
To feign distorted shadows of his thought.
And so with light he rose, and unrefreshed
Rode out across the meadows, crushing down
His care with motion in the whistling airs
Of morning: and he rested not his steed
Until he found her by the lisping well
Pallid as he was pale, and in her eyes
He read the crisis of his life was come.
The morrow; so he turned the question round
Thro' all that day and half a restless night
In sleep, that came, more hateful than unrest,
To feign distorted shadows of his thought.
And so with light he rose, and unrefreshed
Rode out across the meadows, crushing down
His care with motion in the whistling airs
Of morning: and he rested not his steed
Until he found her by the lisping well
88
He read the crisis of his life was come.
| Eclogues and monodramas | |