STONE APPLES
And there in a niche by the colonnade,
Alone with the crisp and biting breeze,
I counted the curves by the river made,
And the grenadier-like trees.
And I vow that the cold and dark to me
Were better than melody, wit and wine,
For I saw, what never on earth should be,
Under the chill moonshine.
I saw by the sinewy river side
A willowy cottage, neat and white,
Where the bayou ripples prank and glide
To the clover aleft and right.
And a damsel, shaming the damsels here,
With nought of their satin and silk and pearls,
She—in a modest, maidenly sphere,
They—like the Gwazee girls!
Oh, how I worshipped you then and there,
The mother of God alone can tell—
With the bandeau dimming your starry hair,
And your hand in mine, Estelle!
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