The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (9.1896)

By Francis Prevost

Dulled the hoof-hammers: up the beech-bowered chase,
My face against her glossy neck I laid,

And, with the palm he had kissed, sped fast her pace:

“ Hands hold their fires,” he’d said.

Her hot breath jetted through my ruffled hair,

The loose mane on my cheek beat out her tread,
And so we cleared the park ditch. (“Would I dare
To risk my heart ? ” he’d said.)

And, thence, walked slowly o’er the withered brake,
While still his questioning face before me fled,

And where he had leaned his head my arm would ache :
“ Hearts ache and break,” he had said.

The Grange gleamed out; within its hall I found,
Scattered and torn, my letters lying—read !

My lord sat in the card-room, muffled round ;

“ I’ve taken cold,” he said.