Explore "Mirèio" by Frédéric Mistral on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Fixing a troubled eye on the old man, / Vincen to Master Ambroi thus began, / The while a mighty wind, the poplars bending, / Its howl unto the poor lad's voice was lending: / "I am mad, father, as I oft of late / Have said. Thinkest thou I'm jesting when I say't?"
Before his nut-shell cot the Rhône beside / Sat Ambroi on a fallen trunk, and plied / His trade. And, as he peeled the osier withe, / Vincen received it, and, with fingers lithe / And strong, bent the white rods to basket form, / Sitting upon the door-stone. With the storm / Of wind was the Rhône's bosom agitated, / The waves drove seaward like a herd belated; / But round about the but an azure mere / Spread tranquilly. The billows brake not here: / A pleasant shelter gave the willow-trees, / And beavers gnawed their bitter bark in peace.