Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/264

238 "Pearl of Provence! of my young days the sun! Shall it be ever said of such an one, I saw upon her forehead the death-dew? Shall it be said, puissant Saints, of you, You looked unmoved upon her mortal pain, Letting her clasp your sacred sill in vain?"

Slowly the maiden answered, "My poor friend, What is it doth affright you, and offend? Believe me, dear, the thing that we call death Is a delusion. Lo! it vanisheth, As a fog when the bells begin their pealing; As dreams with daylight through the window stealing.

"I am not dying! See, I mount the boat With a light foot! And now we are afloat! Good-by! good-by! We are drifting out to sea. The waves encompass us, and needs must be The very avenue to Paradise, For all around they touch the azure skies!

"Gently they rock us now. And overhead So many stars are shining! Ah," she said, "Among those worlds one surely may be found Where two may love in peace! Hark, Saints, that sound! Is it an organ played across the deep?" Then sighed, and fell, as it had been, asleep.