Tales of old Boccaccio:
Tall Decameronian maids
Strolled for me among the glades,
Smiling, sweet and slow.
And when you approached,—my book
Dropped in wonder,—seemingly
To myself I said, “’Tis she!”
And arose to look
In Lauretta’s eyes and—true!
Found them yours.—You shook your head,
Laughing at me, as you said,
“Did I frighten you?”
You had come for cherries; these
Coatless then I climbed for while
You still questioned with a smile,
And still tried to tease.
Ah, love, just two years have gone
Since then.... I remember, you
Wore a dress of billowy blue
Muslin.—Was it “lawn”?—
And your apron still I see—
All its whiteness cherry-stained—
Which you held; wherein I rained
Ripeness from the tree.
And I asked you—for, you know,
To my eyes your serious eyes
Said such deep philosophies—
If you ’d read Rousseau.
You remember how a chance,
Somewhat like to mine, one June
Happened him at castle Toune,
Over there in France?
And a cherry dropping fair
On your cheek, I, envying it,
Cried—remembering Rousseau’s wit—
“Would my lips were there!” ...
Here we are at last. We ’ll row
Down the stream.—The west has narrowed
To one streak of rose, deep-arrowed.—
There ’s our skiff below.