Clang the gate, no need for further waiting, nobody
else will be coming
to Malmaison to-night.
White under her veil, drained and shaking, the woman crosses the
antechamber.
Empress! Empress! Foolish splendour, perished
to dust. Ashes of roses,
ashes of youth. Empress forsooth!
Over the glass domes of the hot-houses drenches
the rain. Behind her
a clock ticks -- ticks again. The sound knocks upon her
thought
with the echoing shudder of hollow vases. She places
her hands on her ears,
but the minutes pass, knocking. Tears in Malmaison. And
years to come
each knocking by, minute after minute. Years, many years,
and tears,
and cold pouring rain.
I feel as though I had died, and the only sensation
I have
is that I am no more.
Rain! Heavy, thudding rain!
V
The roses bloom at Malmaison. And not
only roses. Tulips, myrtles,
geraniums, camelias, rhododendrons, dahlias, double hyacinths.
All the year through, under glass, under the sky, flowers bud, expand,
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