# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Marie (Auguste Brizeux)

MARIE.
AUGUSTE BRIZEUX.
One day we sat—we two, on Kerlo bridge, With our feet on the wave, over the ridge, Joyous to stop, as it went on its way, A branch, a fern, or a flower smiling gay, And under the willows the fishes to spite That came up to slumber in warmth and light. Savage the spot was, no breath, no sound Awoke in the valley, above and around, Except our own laughter, childish and shrill, And our voices echoed loud back from the hill, To run through the labyrinth of dark woods Fainter and fainter 'mid the solitudes; For two brown forests the river enfold As it seaward glides, slow, limpid, and cold. Alone in this desert, and free all the day, Love filled our hearts in the midst of our play. It was pleasure to see in the waters clear A thousand small fish disport without fear, Bite and pursue, or in bands swim along, Fins of silver and gold displayed all the throng. Then the royal salmon, and 'neath the stone The eel that hides by the bank all alone. Numberless insects, transparent, with wings, Mounted the current all day to the springs;
Bees, bluebottles, and alert dragon-flies That fled under reeds, escaping the eyes Of swallows pursuing. One sat on the hand Of Marie by chance—a waif from a band. Its aspect was strange, and wholly unknown, Two goggle eyes, and of jet a black zone; So forward I ran to crush it,—but lo! Already 'twas seized, and held up for show By my young peasant girl. Dazzling the wings, Transparent, with slight rainbow colourings,— On seeing the poor thing struggle with fear, 'My God! how it trembles; why kill it, the dear?' She said; while her mouth, round, rosy, and pure, Blew it in air, and then smiled demure, While it sudden displayed its pinions of fire, And fled, praising God—rising higher and higher.
Many moons have passed since that happy time, Alas! many years! In life's sunny prime In my fifteenth summer I had entered then— Ah, how days dissipate, and vanish men! But though days and years may pass like the breeze, They never can tarnish such memories. Other days shall come, and haply shall bring Other feelings and loves upon their wing; But the love of my youth, serene and pure, In the shade of my heart shall ever endure, O first love, O first love, bloom, ever bloom, And shed through my life thy magic perfume!
O house of Moustoir! How often at night, And in crowds, amid noise, in day's broad light,
Thou gladd'nest mine eyes! Village roofs emerge Bathed in a sea of foliage to the verge Of skies for ever blue—a slender coil Of smoke arising, speaks of daily toil; A woman in a field, that calls her boy Far off—a youthful herdsman in his joy, That sits beside a cow, and while it feeds, Tied to its tether, tries of river reeds To make a rustic flute, and plaintively Intones a simple Breton melody,— An air so melancholy, soft, and sweet, That you would weep to hear it. Then the heat— The rural hum, the fragrance on the wind, The grey old walls of cottages entwined With ivy, and the pathways small and white Bordered with heath. All, all in memory's light Revive, as when with naked feet I ran To Moustoir, where our dawn of love began, When the port scaling, ere darkness had bound The earth, I hastened through familiar ground To meet my loved one. Recollections fond In which my poor heart revels—far beyond Hopes for the future—dreams, in which I live, Which give me more than present joys can give; Thus day by day, unwearied, I behold The roofs of thatch, the woods that them enfold,— The old wells where the women pitchers fill, The court in flower, with bee-hives near the sill, The threshing floor, the pump, the barn, the nook, With heaps of apples that most tempting look, Red-cheeked and golden, and the hay-ricks high, The doors by which sleek cattle slothful lie, The mangers clean, the piles of garnered straw, Denoting rural comfort, household law—
How vivid all,—clear-pictured in my brain, And how they come again and yet again! The house I enter. Silence reigns profound, The night is calm and dark, my steps resound; A single ray darts on the ceiling beam Straight as an arrow, round it dance and stream Atoms of dust, that like to diamonds gleam. But soon each object lightens; I can see The oaken bed and trunk, two steps from me. Towards the door in turning, on a chest Enormous, vases of all shapes abreast With basins, dishes, jugs, and walnut spoons, Rye bread, and milk, and cheese, and grapes, and prunes; And lower down, beside the sacred hearth, By which the tiny cricket shrills its mirth, Calm sitting at her wheel, in shadow dim, Marie I recognise in her garments trim, Contrasts her white skirt with her own rose hue As she the folds arranges. Fills with dew Mine eyes, as soft she says, 'Ah, is it you?'