Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/130

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"How deep and dark soe'er their watery prison.
Look! Even now hath from the wave arisen
The long procession of the weeping dead!
Barefoot, poor things! the shingly shore they tread,
The turbid water dripping, dripping, see,
From matted hair and stained clothes heavily.

"See them defile under the poplars tall,
Carrying lighted tapers, one and all.
While up the river's bank, now and anon,
Eagerly clambereth another one.
'Tis they who toss our wretched craft about
So like a raging storm, I make do doubt.

"Their cramped legs and their mottled arms—ah, see!—
And heavy heads they from the weeds would free.
Oh, how they watch the stars as on they go,
Quaff the fresh air and thrill at sight of Crau,
And scent the harvest odors the winds bring,
In their brief hour of motion reveling!

"And still the water from their garments raineth,
And still another and another gaineth
The river-bank. And there," the boatman moans,
"Are the old men, women, and little ones:
They spurn the clinging mud. Ah me!" he said,
"Yon ghastly things abhor the fisher's trade.