Sing, magnarello, merrily, The green leaves ever piling! Two comely children sit on high, Amid the foliage, smiling. Sing, magnarello, loud and oft: Your merry labour hasten. The guileless pair who laugh aloft Are learning love’s first lesson. Cleared from the hills meanwhile the mists of morn, And o’er the ruined towers, whither return Nightly the grim old lords of Baux, they say; And o’er the barren rocks ’gan take their way Vultures, whose large, white wings are seen to gleam Resplendent in the noontide’s burning beam. Then cried the maiden, pouting, “We have done Naught! Oh, shame to idle so! _Some one_ Said he would help me; and that some one still Doth naught but talk, and make me laugh at will. Work now, lest mother say I am unwary And idle, and too awkward yet to marry! “Ah! my brave friend, I think should one engage you To pick leaves by the quintal, and for wage, you Would all the same sit still and feast your eyes, Handling the ready sprays in dreamy wise!” Whereat the boy, a trifle disconcerted, “And so thou takest me for a gawky!” blurted. “We’ll see, my fair young lady,” added he, “Which of us two the better picker be!” They ply both hands now. With vast animation, They bend and strip the branches. No occasion For rest or idle chatter either uses (The bleating sheep, they say, her mouthful loses), 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 head bent low, “I know not, Vincen,”--thus Mirèio. And so they turned a few more leaves to gather, And for a while spake not again, but rather Exchanged bright looks and sidelong, saying well The one who first should laugh, would break the spell. Their hearts beat high, the green leaves fell like rain; And, when the time for sacking came again, Whether by chance or by contrivance, yet The white hand and the brown hand always met. Nor seemed there any lack of happiness The while their labour failed not to progress. Sing, magnarello, merrily, As the green leaves you gather! The sun of May is riding high, And ardent is the weather.