Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/58

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Until the mulberry-tree is bare of leaves,
And these the ready sack at once receives,
At whose distended mouth—ah, youth is sweet!—
Mirèio's pretty taper hand will meet
In strange entanglement that somehow lingers
That Vincen's, with its brown and burning fingers.

Both started. In their cheeks the flush rose higher:
They felt the heat of some mysterious fire.
They dropped the mulberry-leaves as if afraid,
And, tremulous with passion, the boy said,—
"What aileth thee, my lady? answer me!
Did any hidden hornet dare sting thee?"

Well-nigh inaudible, with drooping brow,
"I know not, Vincen,"—thus Mirèio.
And so they turned a few more leaves to gather,
And neither spake again unto the other.
But their bright, sidelong glances seemed to seek
Which would be first to laugh, and the spell break.

Their hearts beat high, the green leaves fell like rain;
And, when the time for sacking came again;
Whether by chance or by contriving it
The white hand and the brown hand always met.
Nor seemed there any lack of happiness
The while their labor failed not to progress.