ANGELIQUE
103
And if a woman, lonely, heavy with seed,
And hungry for a moment of romance,
Assured of the fulfilment of a dream
Of swinging cradleboards, and reassured
That in the Moon-of-Falling-Leaves the curé,
Father Bazile, would bind them with the banns
And sanctify their evening of delight—
If such a woman, in this circumstance,
Yield to the law of gravity, what man
Of wisdom in the ways of nature will put
His heel on her, or stone her with contempt!
So Angelique!—among the grim-lipped pines
That rim the valley of the Beaverbrook . . .
While parish St. Hilaire was dark with sleep . . .
When the hollow mocking laughter of a loon
Echoed within the silver bell of night. . . .
And hungry for a moment of romance,
Assured of the fulfilment of a dream
Of swinging cradleboards, and reassured
That in the Moon-of-Falling-Leaves the curé,
Father Bazile, would bind them with the banns
And sanctify their evening of delight—
If such a woman, in this circumstance,
Yield to the law of gravity, what man
Of wisdom in the ways of nature will put
His heel on her, or stone her with contempt!
So Angelique!—among the grim-lipped pines
That rim the valley of the Beaverbrook . . .
While parish St. Hilaire was dark with sleep . . .
When the hollow mocking laughter of a loon
Echoed within the silver bell of night. . . .
In the Moon-of-Falling-Leaves, upon the banks
Of Beaverbrook, lone Angelique maintained
Her patient vigil, started to the door
With every coming footfall on the trail,
Caught her warm breath with every crackling twig—
As, one by one, the frosted maple-blades,
Floating their bronze upon the wistful blue
Of smoldering autumn, eddied to the sod,
Of Beaverbrook, lone Angelique maintained
Her patient vigil, started to the door
With every coming footfall on the trail,
Caught her warm breath with every crackling twig—
As, one by one, the frosted maple-blades,
Floating their bronze upon the wistful blue
Of smoldering autumn, eddied to the sod,
