A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Cheval et Cavalier (Gustave Nadaud)
CHEVAL ET CAVALIER.
My foot is in the stirrup—on!
'Tis time, my steed, that we were gone.
The daylight wears:
Thy poor, poor master turneth mad,
We must be gone—the words are sad—
Who cares!
Fast in a net-work, she had thought,
Of siren love I had been caught,
And so she hurled
Contemptuous words; but I am free—
Place, place between her pride and me
The world.
Light were our steps, our spirits gay,
When thus we journeyed day by day
Beneath the firs,
To see the fair in her abode.
Now, we must shun the beaten road
To hers.
How proud she is of all her charms,
False gods I worshipped—rounded arms,
A colour pale,
A mirrored heaven in dark blue eyes,
A red mouth whence coquettish sighs
Exhale.
My soul has found its wonted pride,
And it can scorn, flout, curse, deride.
Beware, oh dove!
And mock no more an eagle proud
That soars, far soars, the thunder-cloud
Above.
Oh, the capricious wicked child!
She loves not and she drives me wild—
She's jealous too:
Forbids all other love within
My heart, as though such love were sin—
The shrew!
Fly, swiftly fly—behold the hour
When she awaits me in her tower,
Fair, fair as spring.
Her coldness has effaced the past,
Without a tear I fly at last
And sing!
But what is here?—The green, green grass,
The lane obscure—the house, alas!
Again to-day!
Oh, well may steed and rider fret,
That cannot, though they would, forget
The way.
Fly swift, oh fly!—Put forth thy pace—
But no; I see—I see her face—
Oh, sad relapse!
One last, last farewell let me say—
To-morrow we shall go our way,
Perhaps.