The Mango Tree

        Let them return, saying you blush again for the great
Great-grandmother. It's all like Christmas.
       When you sprouted Paradise a discard of chewing-gum
took place. Up jug to musical, hanging jug just gay spiders
yoked you first,—silking of shadows good underdrawers for
owls.
   First-plucked before and since the Flood, old hypno-
tisms wrench the golden boughs. Leaves spatter dawn from
emerald cloud-sprockets. Fat final prophets with lean ban-
dits crouch: and dusk is close
                                       under your noon,
                                       you Sun-heap, whose
ripe apple-lanterns gush history, recondite lightnings, irised.
                                       O mister Señor
                                       missus Miss
                                       Mademoiselle
                                       with baskets

                                                                 Maggy, come on