And she would know who called her, and would fly
Swift, silent, to the mulberry-tree hard by,
With quickened pulses. Fair is the moonlight
Upon narcissus-buds in summer night,
And sweet the rustle of the zephyr borne
In summer eve over the ripening corn,
Until the whole, in infinite undulation,
Seems like a great heart palpitant with passion.
Also the chamois hath a joy most keen
When through the Queiras, that most wild ravine
All day before the huntsman he hath flown,
And stands at length upon a peak, alone
With larches and with ice fields, looking forth.
But all these joys and charms are little worth,
With the brief rapture of the hours compared—
Ah, brief!—that Vincen and Mirèio shared,
When, by the friendly shadows favourèd,
(Speak low, my lips, for trees can hear, ’tis said,)
Their hands would seek each other and would meet,
And silence fall upon them, while their feet
Played idly with the pebbles in their way.
Until, not knowing better what to say,
The tyro-lover laughingly would tell
Of all the small mishaps that him befell;
Of nights he passed beneath the open heaven;
Of bites the farmers’ dogs his legs had given,
And show his scars. And then the maid told o’er
Her tasks of that day and the day before;
And what her parents said; and how the goat
With trellis-flowers had filled his greedy throat.
Once only—Vincen knew not what he did;
But, stealthy as a wild-cat, he had slid
Along the grasses of the barren moor,
And prostrate lay his darling’s feet before.
Then—soft, my lips, because the trees can hear—
He said, “Give me one kiss, Mirèio dear!
“I cannot eat nor drink,” he made his moan,
“For the great love I bear you! Yea, mine own,
Your breath the life out of my blood has taken.
Go not, Mirèio! Leave me not forsaken!
From dawn to dawn, at least, let a true lover
Kneel, and your garment’s hem with kisses cover!”
“Why, Vincen,” said Mirèio, “that were sin!
Then would the black-cap and the penduline
Tell everywhere the secret they had heard!”
“No fear of that! for every tell-tale bird
I’d banish from La Crau to Arles,” said he;
“For you, Mirèio, are as heaven to me!
“Now list! There grows a plant in river Rhone,
Eel-grass, the name whereby that plant is known,
Two flowers it beareth, each on its own stem,
And a great space of water severs them,
For the plant springs out of the river’s bed;
But when the time for wooing comes,” he said,
“One flower leaps to the surface of the flood,
And in the genial sunshine opes its bud.
Whereon the other, seeing this so fair,
Swims eagerly to seize and kiss her there;
But, for the tangled weeds, can she not gain
Her love, till her frail stem breaks with the strain.