C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Enfantillage
By Sully Prudhomme (René François Armand Prudhomme) (18391907)
M
Twelve years were mine;
Soon forgotten were your lovers,
All left to pine.
You still I sought;
When small hands were intertwining,
’Twas yours I caught.
Poised o’er the rose,
Tells the butterfly his story,
All his heart glows;
Is yet too shy
All the honey-dew to gather
She holds so nigh:
Your lips to press;
’Twas your slender fingers only
I dared caress.
Then keen as woe:
What gave joy and pain such meeting?
Love—long ago.
’Tis not common.
You too, Lady—were you feeling
Like a woman?
As, half afraid,
With your frock and with your dolly
You stood and played?
Your tiny feet,
Too soon fair, you leant and touched me
With magic sweet.
That even-tide
When we set up house together,—
Bridegroom and bride.
My vow to you!
Both were older than our years were,
Both different too!
You wished it so,—
Said that proper weddings must have
Some pomp and show.
I thought it true,
Told my love aloud, and whispered
“Dearest” to you.
One kiss to leave.
Play for me has all been over
Since that spring eve.