Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Someday soon, when you visit the sparkling diversions of Walt DisNew Orleans, or move into the new suburbs that will feed the labor pool at the improved port and petrochemical facilities, or retire near the golf courses and casinos that will blossom along the windswept gulf coast, you may find yourself alone at twilight. Perhaps you will imagine that you glimpse a figure moving among the cypresses, or feel something like the soft brush of magnolia-scented hair on your cheek.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers --
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.
~~ from Evangeline
~~ by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow