Ross Poldark (Poldark, #1)

by Winston Graham

Distinction of class was not absent; it was understood so clearly that nobody needed to emphasize it.

I am happy, he thought again. Something is happening to me, to us, transmuting our shabby little love affair. Keep this mood, hold on to it. No slipping back.

I do pluck a fair rose for my love; I do pluck a red rose blowing. Love’s in my heart a-trying so to prove What your heart’s knowing. I do pluck a finger on a thorn, I do pluck a finger bleeding. Red is my heart a-wounded and forlorn And your heart needing. I do hold a finger to my tongue, I do hold a finger waiting. My heart is sore until it joins in song Wi’ your heart mating.