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MIRÈIO.
CANTO I.
LOTUS1 FARM.
I SING the love of a Provençal maid;
How through the wheat-fields of La Crau2 she strayed,
Following the fate that drew her to the sea.
Unknown beyond remote La Crau was she;
And I, who tell the rustic tale of her,
Would fain he Homer's humble follower.
What though youth’s aureole was her only crown?
And never gold she wore nor damask gown?
I’ll build her up a throne out of my song,
And hail her queen in our despisèd tongue.
Mine be the simple speech that ye all know,
Shepherds and farmer-folk of lone La Crau.
