Mirèio quotes

I sing the love of a Provençal maid;

How through the wheat-fields of La Crau she strayed, Following the fate that drew her to the sea. Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she; And I, who tell the rustic tale of her, Would fain be Homer’s humble follower.

What though youth’s aureóle was her only crown? And never gold she wore nor damask gown?

I’ll build her up a throne out of my song,

And hail her queen in our despisèd tongue. Mine be the simple speech that ye all know, Shepherds and farmer-folk of lone La Crau.

Ah, me! the purple coast of Font Vièio, 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 ingenious 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.

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.

“But, round about the roots, once every year The neighbouring stream comes gushing, as I hear, And the shrub drinks the water as it rises, And that one drink for the whole year suffices.

Even as the gem is cut to fit the ring, This parable to us is answering.

“I am the fig-tree on the barren mountain; And thou, mine own, art the reviving fountain!