and advancing,
trundling a country ahead of it as though it were a hoop. Laughter,
and spur janglings in tessellated vestibules. Tripping
of clocked
and embroidered stockings in little low-heeled shoes over smooth
grass-plots.
India muslins spangled with silver patterns slide through trees
--
mingle -- separate -- white day fireflies flashing moon-brilliance
in the shade of foliage.
The kangaroos! I vow, Captain, I must
see the kangaroos.
As you please, dear Lady, but I recommend the
shady linden alley
and feeding the cockatoos.
They say that Madame Bonapartes breed of sheep
is the best in all France.
And, oh, have you seen the enchanting little cedar
she planted
when the First Consul sent home the news of the victory of Marengo?
Picking, choosing, the chattering company flits
to and fro. Over the trees
the great clouds go, tiered, stately, like ships of the line
bright with canvas.
Prisoners-base, and its swooping, veering, racing,
giggling, bumping.
The First Consul runs plump into M. de Beauharnais and falls.
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2016-03-17
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