Page:Mistral - Mirèio. A Provençal poem.djvu/64

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A moment, and she struggled to be free
From his embrace. The flower of the quince-tree
Is not so pale. Then backward the two sank,
And gazed at one another on the bank,
Until the weaver's son the silence brake,
And thus in seeming wrath arose and spake:

"Shame on thee, thou perfidious mulberry!
A devil's tree! A Friday-planted tree!
Blight seize and wood-louse eat thee! May thy master
Hold thee in horror for this day's disaster!
Tell me thou art not hurt, Mirèio!"
Trembling from head to foot, she answered, "No:

"I am not hurt; but as a baby weeps
And knows not why,—there 's something here that keeps
Perpetual tumult in my heart. A pain
Blinds me and deafens me, and fills my brain,
So that my blood in a tumultuous riot
Courses my body through, and won't be quiet."

"May it not be," the simple boy replied,
"Thou fearest to have thy mother come and chide
Thy tardy picking,—as when I come back
Late from the blackberry-field with lace all black,
And tattered clothes?" Mirèio sighed again,
"Ah, no! This is another kind of pain!"