Page:Enoch Arden, etc - Tennyson - 1864.djvu/95

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AYLMER’S FIELD.
79
Were living nerves to feel the rent; and burnt,Now chafing at his own great self defied,Now striking on huge stumbling-blocks of scornIn babyisms, and dear diminutivesScatter'd all over the vocabularyOf such a love as like a chidden child,After much wailing, hush'd itself at lastHopeless of answer: then tho' Averill wroteAnd bad him with good heart sustain himself—All would be well—the lover heeded not,But passionately restless came and went,And rustling once at night about the place,There by a keeper shot at, slightly hurt,Raging return'd: nor was it well for herKept to the garden now, and grove of pines,Watch'd even there; and one was set to watchThe watcher, and Sir Aylmer watch'd them all,Yet bitterer from his readings: once indeed,Warm'd with his wines, or taking pride in her,She look'd so sweet, he kiss'd her tenderly
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