Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/139

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His thought back to his love as bee to flower.
"The anguish on thy face, dear, in this hour
Is far more bitter than my wound to me.
The pretty basket that in company
We once began will be unfinished now.
Would I had seen it full to overflow,

"Dear, with thy love! Oh, stay! Life 's in thine eyes.
Ah, if thou couldst do something," the lad cries,
"For him,—the poor old basket-weaver there,—
My father, worn with toil!" In her despair,
Mirèio bathes the wound, while some bring lint,
And some run to the hills for healing mint.

Then the maid's mother spake: "Let four men rally,
And to the Fairies' Cavern,⁴ in the valley
They call Enter, bear up this wounded man.
The deadlier the hurt, the sooner can
The old witch heal. Scale first the cliffs of Baux,
And circling vultures the cave's month will show."

A hole flush with the rocks, by lizards haunted,
And veiled by tufts of rosemary thereby planted.
For ever, since the holy Angelus swells
In Mary's honor from the miaster-hells,
The antique fairies have been forced to hide
From sunlight, and in this deep cavern bide.