ANGELIQUE
101
Upon the tree of life she hung, in reach
Of the hand of any passing harvester—
A ripe wild plum, grown full with amber sap
As thick and clear beneath the billowy skin
As a globe of pure wild honey against the sun,
So heavy with life upon the bended twig
That any breeze might shake it from the bough.
Of the hand of any passing harvester—
A ripe wild plum, grown full with amber sap
As thick and clear beneath the billowy skin
As a globe of pure wild honey against the sun,
So heavy with life upon the bended twig
That any breeze might shake it from the bough.
But breezes in the parish St. Hilaire
Were few enough, and harvesters were fewer,
What with the lumberjacks away on drives
In distant logging-camps, and the voyageurs
Trading for pelts, or out on timber-cruise.
Thus Angelique remained upon the branch,
Powdered with bloom as any untouched drupe,
Until the government dentist, Gene Magruder,
Came with the crew of federal engineers.
Were few enough, and harvesters were fewer,
What with the lumberjacks away on drives
In distant logging-camps, and the voyageurs
Trading for pelts, or out on timber-cruise.
Thus Angelique remained upon the branch,
Powdered with bloom as any untouched drupe,
Until the government dentist, Gene Magruder,
Came with the crew of federal engineers.
Magruder was a connoisseur of fruit,
Truly a horticulturist of parts—
And smooth as darkly quiet water flowing
Over a beaver-dam. Oh, he was good
To contemplate, celestial in the eyes
Of guileless Angelique, when mimicking
The moods of heroes in the cinema,
Truly a horticulturist of parts—
And smooth as darkly quiet water flowing
Over a beaver-dam. Oh, he was good
To contemplate, celestial in the eyes
Of guileless Angelique, when mimicking
The moods of heroes in the cinema,
