Country girl, don’t stay away from the market,
you with the blond hair —cauliflower in mustard—
and those eyes, those eyes where wickedness makes its nest!…
Who wouldn’t run to watch you crossing the square!
Even the village priest, that frank and simple soul,
when you appear shakes off his lazy languor!…
You are an eclogue! ..and you sing, without singing, the seeds,
the furrows, the mills, the bubbling streams
where leaves float their yellow sadness…
What do you care if that crass, that potbellied banker,
and that spinster there —old and very ugly—
do not buy from you (slaves to their useless wealth!)
your pinks and lilies lovely flower of your village…
To the devil with them! To the garlic and
tomato with them! Let them eat rice and turtle-meat!
For you, country girl with your hat and skirt,
you, debonaire and sweet, riding by on your donkey,
give the wings and trills of a goldfinch to a crow!
The wings and trills!… And you take away the rose
of your face!… And you take away your malicious glance,
and your sweet smile which has said to me the thing
that to a glutton suggests the half-open pomegranate!…