Petit Trianon

When the long drawn notes of a bird’s song Echoes through the trees, It brings to remembrance the songs Of the blackbirds at Petit Trianon: Chiming, reverberating, floating down From the tops of the tall cedars As from an invisible, celestial choir. Nor can I forget the ages-old wisteria Clambering over gray palace walls, Nor the gamut of color in the azaleas there— Pink, orange, cerise, yellow— In pale green foliage.