the sky
like ships of the line, stately with canvas.
III
The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all
day. The gravel
of the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels.
An officer gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops
down
with his charger kicking. `Valets de pied run about
in ones, and twos,
and groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The
guard is changing,
and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging along the
roads
toward Paris.
The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles
milkily, vaguely,
the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone,
and onyx
now for the suns mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison.
New rocks and fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars
uprearing
antique temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of
stone,
bridges of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere,
new flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed,
the roses bloom at Malmaison. It is youth, youth untrammeled
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