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How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun,
over there, over there,
beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops
and windings,
over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like
ships
of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the
sky,
over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving
river.
A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom
at Malmaison.
Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already
the Citoyenne Beauharnais
wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered
with dust,
she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses
with
smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves . . . Roses
. . .
They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs
her shoulders
and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she
would be back
in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine
more likely.
The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles
in the sun.
