Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/33

] Wherefore the basket-weaver, well-content, Rose with his son and to the table went, And sat him down and cut the bread for both; While bright Mirèio hasted, nothing loth, Seasoned a, dish of beans with olive oil, And came and sat before them with a smile.

Not quite fifteen was this same fair Mirèio. Ah, me! the purple coast of Font Vièio,$7$ The hills of Baux, the desolate Crau plain, A shape like hers will hardly see again. Child of the merry sun, her dimpled face Bloomed into laughter with ingenuous grace.

Eyes had she limpid as the drops of dew; And, when she fixed their tender gaze on you, Sorrow was not. Stars in a summer night Are not more softly, innocently bright: And beauteous hair, all waves and rings of jet; And breasts, a double peach, scarce ripened yet.

Shy, yet a joyous little sprite she was; And, finding all her sweetness in a glass. You would have drained it at a single breath. But to our tale, which somewhat lingereth. When every man his day's toil had rehearsed (So, at my father's farm, I heard them first),—