When the crop is fair in the olive-yard, And the earthen jars are ready For the golden oil from the barrels poured, And the big cart rocks unsteady With its tower of gathered sheaves, and strains And groans on its way through fields and lanes; When brawny and bare as an old athlete Comes Bacchus the dance a-leading, And the labourers all, with juice-dyed feet, The vintage of Crau are treading, And the good wine pours from the brimful presses, And the ruddy foam in the vats increases; When under the leaves of the Spanish broom The clear silk-worms are holden, An artist each, in a tiny loom, Weaving a web all golden,-- Fine, frail cells out of sunlight spun, Where they creep and sleep by the million,-- Glad is Provence on a day like that, ’Tis the time of jest and laughter: The Ferigoulet and the Baume Muscat They quaff, and they sing thereafter. And lads and lasses, their toils between, Dance to the tinkling tambourine. “Methinks, good neighbours, I am Fortune’s pet. Ne’er in my trellised arbor saw I yet A silkier bower, cocoons more worthy praise, Or richer harvest, since the year of grace When first I laid my hand on Ramoun’s arm And came, a youthful bride, to Lotus Farm.” So spake Jano Mario, Ramoun’s wife, The fond, proud mother who had given life To our Mirèio. Unto her had hied, The while were gathered the cocoons outside, Her neighbours. In the silk-worm-room they throng; And, as they aid the picking, gossip long. To these Mirèio tendered now and then Oak-sprigs and sprays of rosemary; for when The worms, lured by the mountain odour, come In myriads, there to make their silken home, The sprays and sprigs, adornèd in such wise, Are like the golden palms of Paradise. “On Mother Mary’s altar yesterday,” Jano Mario said, “I went to lay My finer sprays, by way of tithe. And so I do each year; for you, my women, know That, when the holy Mother will, ’tis she Who sendeth up the worms abundantly.” “Now, for my part,” said Zèu of Host Farm, “Great fears have I my worms will come to harm. You mind that ugly day the east wind blew,-- I left my window open,--if you knew Ever such folly!--and to my affright Upon my floor are twenty, now turned white.” To Zèu thus the crone Taven replied-- A witch, who from the cliffs of Baux had hied To help at the cocooning: “Youth is bold, The young think they know better than the old; And age is torment, and we mourn the fate Which bids us see and know,--but all too late, “Ye are such giddy women, every one, That, if the hatching promise well, ye run Straightway about the streets the tale to tell. ‘Come see my silk-worms! ’Tis incredible How fine they are!’ Envy can well dissemble: She hastens to your room, her heart a-tremble