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Home  »  library  »  poem  »  Enfantillage

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) (1839–1907)

Translation of E. and R. E. Prothero

MY lady! you were little then:

Twelve years were mine;

Soon forgotten were your lovers,

All left to pine.

When we played among the others,

You still I sought;

When small hands were intertwining,

’Twas yours I caught.

As in gold and purple glory,

Poised o’er the rose,

Tells the butterfly his story,

All his heart glows;

Leaf by leaf, still nearer drawing,

Is yet too shy

All the honey-dew to gather

She holds so nigh:

So my heart was yearning wildly

Your lips to press;

’Twas your slender fingers only

I dared caress.

Through me thrilled a sudden rapture,

Then keen as woe:

What gave joy and pain such meeting?

Love—long ago.

Twelve years only—and a lover!

’Tis not common.

You too, Lady—were you feeling

Like a woman?

Did there come some thought bewildering

As, half afraid,

With your frock and with your dolly

You stood and played?

If I praised—too soon a poet—

Your tiny feet,

Too soon fair, you leant and touched me

With magic sweet.

I at least have ne’er forgotten

That even-tide

When we set up house together,—

Bridegroom and bride.

Gems you dreamed of;—I dreamed over

My vow to you!

Both were older than our years were,

Both different too!

We played at the dance and dinner:

You wished it so,—

Said that proper weddings must have

Some pomp and show.

You enjoyed it as a pastime,—

I thought it true,

Told my love aloud, and whispered

“Dearest” to you.

On your cheek I ventured, dreaming,

One kiss to leave.

Play for me has all been over

Since that spring eve.