Bagatelle

CORYDON     A PASTORAL     SCENE: A roadside in Arcady     SHEPHERD.     Good sir, have you seen pass this way     A mischief straight from market-day?     You'd know her at a glance, I think;     Her eyes are blue, her lips are pink;     She has a way of looking back     Over her shoulder, and, alack!     Who gets that look one time, good sir,     Has naught to do but follow her.     PILGRIM.     I have not seen this maid, methinks,     Though she that passed had lips like pinks.     SHEPHERD.     Or like two strawberries made one     By some sly trick of dew and sun.     PILGRIM.     A poet!     SHEPHERD.     Nay, a simple swain     That tends his flock on yonder plain,     Naught else, I swear by book and bell.     But she that passed--you marked her well.     Was she not smooth as any be     That dwell herein in Arcady?     PILGRIM.     Her skin was as the satin bark     Of birches.     SHEPHERD.     Light or dark?     PILGRIM.     Quite dark.     SHEPHERD.     Then 'twas not she.     PILGRIM.     The peach's side     That's next the sun is not so dyed     As was her cheek. Her hair hung down     Like summer twilight falling brown;     And when the breeze swept by, I wist     Her face was in a sombre mist.     SHEPHERD.     No, that is not the maid I seek.     HER hair lies gold against the cheek;     Her yellow tresses take the morn     Like silken tassels of the corn.     And yet--brown locks are far from bad.     PILGRIM.     Now I bethink me, this one had     A figure like the willow-tree     Which, slight and supple, wondrously     Inclines to droop with pensive grace,     And still retains its proper place;     A foot so arched and very small     The marvel was she walked at all;     Her hand--in sooth I lack for words--     Her hand, five slender snow-white birds.     Her voice--though she but said "God-speed"--     Was melody blown through a reed;     The girl Pan changed into a pipe     Had not a note so full and ripe.     And then her eye--my lad, her eye!     Discreet, inviting, candid, shy,     An outward ice, an inward fire,     And lashes to the heart's desire--     Soft fringes blacker than the sloe.     SHEPHERD, THOUGHTFULLY.     Good sir, which way did THIS one go?     . . . . . . . .     PILGRIM, SOLUS.     So, he is off! The silly youth     Knoweth not Love in sober sooth.     He loves--thus lads at first are blind--     No woman, only Womankind.     I needs must laugh, for, by the Mass,     No maid at all did this way pass!