A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Cow (Victor Hugo)
THE COW.
Before the white farm where o'er the threshold festoon
Wild creepers—where an old man sits sometimes at noon,
Where numbers of fowl strut and display their red crests,
And the watch-dog their guardian peacefully rests,
Half attentive to the clear trumpet note of their king,
Resplendent in sunshine as he claps his strong wing,
There stood a cow—chance-brought—on her neck bells jingled,
Superb, enormous, red and white intermingled—
Gentle, tender, and patient as a hind to its young,
She had gathered a bright group of children who hung
Under and around her,—village children, with teeth
White as marble peeping their red lips underneath,
And bushy hair in disorder; fresh and more brown
Than the mossy old walls in the skirts of a town,
Obstreperous—all calling together with cries
For other much younger to take shares in the prize;
The bands steal without pity, though they tremble with fear,
And look furtive around lest the milkmaid appear,
With ruby lips—lips joyous, that haply cause pain,
With fingers that busy, press again and again,
The full udders transpierced with a thousand small pores,
They draw the sweet nectar amid laughter and roars,
While she, the good mother, with a skin soft as silk
White and red, rich laden with her treasure of milk,
Powerful and kind, the most liberal of givers,
Under their hands is still. Scarce now and then shivers
Her bright side more shaded than the flank of a pard
As they pull. She seems carved in stone massive and hard;
Dreamy, large-eyed, and calm, she desires no release,
But looks vaguely in air, a grand picture of peace.
Thus Nature—our refuge, 'gainst the arrows of fate!
Universal Mother, as indulgent as great!
Thus all at once, creatures of every age and rank,
Shadow and milk we search, in thine eternal flank;
The mystic and carnal, the wise and foolish, come there,
The spirits retiring, and the spirits that dare,
Sages with halos bound, poets with laurels crowned,
All creep under thy breast, or encircle thee round.
And whilst well-nigh famished, with eager joyful cries
From thy source endless, we draw our needed supplies,
Quench our heart's thirst, and ask and obtain what must soon
Form our blood and our soul, as a free gift and boon,
Respire in long waves thy sacred flame and thy light,
From all that greets our ears, or our touch, or our sight—
The leaves and the mountains, the blue sky and green sod,
Thou undistracted and still—thou dreamest of thy God!