So I say to the reapers:  “Reapers, leave behind you a little corner uncut, where, during the summer, the prego-dieu may have shelter.”

II

This autumn, going down a sunken road, I wandered off across the fields, lost in earthly thoughts.

And, once more, amid the stubble, I saw, clinging to a tiny ear of grain, folded up in his double wing, the prego-dieu.

“Beautiful insect,” said I then, “I have heard that, as a reward for thy ceaseless praying, God hath given thee the gift of divination.

“And that if some child, lost amid the harvest fields, asks of thee his way, thou, little creature, showest him the way through the wheat.

“In the pleasures and pains of this world, I see that I, poor child, am astray; for, as he grows, man feels his wickedness.

“In the grain and in the chaff, in fear and in pride, in budding hope, alas for me, I see my ruin.

“I love space, and I am in chains; among thorns I walk barefoot; Love is God, and Love sins; every enthusiasm after action is disappointed.

“What we accomplished is wiped out; brute instinct is satisfied, and the ideal is not reached; we must be born amid tears, and be stung among the flowers.

“Evil is hideous, and it smiles upon me; the flesh is fair, and it rots; the water is bitter, and I would drink; I am languishing, I want to die and yet to live.

“I am falling faint and weary; O prego-dieu, cause some slight hope of something true to shine upon me; show me the way.”

And straightway I saw that the insect stretched forth its slender arm toward Heaven; mysterious, mute, earnest, it was praying.

* * * * *

Such reference to religious doubt is elsewhere absent from Mistral’s work.  His faith is strong, and the energy of his life-work has its source largely, not only in this religious faith, but in his firm belief in himself, in his race, and in the mission he has felt called upon to undertake.  Reflected obviously in the above poem is the growth of the poet in experience and in thought.

Lastly, among the poems of his Isclo d’Or, we wish to call attention to one that, in its theme, recalls Le Lac, La Tristesse d’Olympio, and Le Souvenir.  The poet comes upon the scene of his first love, and apostrophizes the natural objects about him.  All four poets intone the strain, “Ye rocks and trees, guard the memory of our love.”

    “O coumbo d’Uriage
      Bos fresqueirous,
    Ounte aven fa lou viage
      Dis amourous,
    O vau qu’aven noumado
      Noste univers,
    Se perdes ta ramado
      Gardo mi vers.”

O vale of Uriage, cool wood, where we made our lovers’ journey; O vale that we called our world, if thou lose thy verdure, keep my verses.

Ye flowers of the high meadows that no man knoweth, watered by Alpine snows, ye are less pure and fresh in the month of April than the little mouth that smiles for me.