The men are not sleeping. They think and remember. Sadness and worry hover about....
Far away, hesitating, a voice sings a prelude. But that voice is so pure and clear that it seems enormous, startling, vibrating in the dull numbness of men and things.
Vigne is humming a song of Provence, a hymn to the sun, which from the banks of the Durance to the shores of the Latin sea, from the blue hills of the Alps to the golden flowers of Vacarès, the youths and maidens of Avignon, Arles, and Maillamne sing as they return to the hospitable farm from their labors, their hands entwined for the farandole, with eyes full of smiles and love for the bright sun which makes them live and love.
Grand souleù de la Provènço
Gai coumpaire doù mistrau
Tu qu’escoules la Durènço
Comme un flot de vin de Crau,
Fai lusi toun blound caleù!
Coucho l’oumbro emai li fleù!
Leù! leù! leù!