Poetry Archives

Bouche-Mignonne liv’d in the mill;
  Past the vineyards shady;
Where the sun shone on a rill
  Jewell’d like a lady.
Proud the stream with lily-bud,
  Gay with glancing swallow;
Swift its trillion-footed flood,
  Winding ways to follow.
Coy and still when flying wheel
  Rested from its labour;
Singing when it ground the meal
  Gay as lute or tabor.
“Bouche-Mignonne” it called, when, red
  In the dawn were glowing,
Eaves and mill-wheel, “leave thy bed,
  “Hark to me a-flowing!”

Bouche-Mignonne awoke and quick
  Glossy tresses braided;
Curious sunbeams cluster’d thick
  Vines her casement shaded.
Deep with leaves and blossoms white
  Of the morning glory,
Shaking all their banners bright
  From the mill, eaves hoary.
Swallows turn’d glossy throats,
  Timorous, uncertain,
When to hear their matin notes,
  Peep’d she thro’ her curtain,
Shook the mill-stream sweet and clear,
  With its silver laughter—
Shook the mill from flooring sere
  Up to oaken ratter.
“Bouche-Mignonne” it cried “come down!
  “Other flowers are stirring;
 “Pierre with fingers strong and brown
  “Sets the wheel a-birring.”

Bouche-Mignonne her distaff plies
  Where the willows shiver,
Round the mossy mill-wheel flies;
  Dragon-flies a-quiver—
Flash a-thwart the lily-beds,
  Pierce the dry reed’s thicket:
Where the yellow sunlight treads
  Chants the friendly cricket.
Butterflies about her skim
  (Pouf! their simple fancies!)
In the willow shadows dim
  Take her eyes for pansies!
Buzzing comes a velvet bee
  Sagely it supposes
Those red lips beneath the tree
  Are two crimson roses!
Laughs the mill-stream wise and bright
  It is not so simple
Knew it, since she first saw light
  Ev’ry blush and dimple!
“Bouche-Mignonne” it laughing cries
  “Pierre as the bee is silly
“Thinks two morning stars thine eyes—
  “And thy neck a lily!”

Bouche-Mignonne when shadows crept
  From the vine-dark hollows;
When the mossy mill-wheel slept
  Curv’d the airy swallows.
When the lilies clos’d white lids
  Over golden fancies—
Homeward drove her goats and kids
  Bright the gay moon dances.
With her light and silver feet,
  On the mill-stream flowing,
Come a thousand perfumes sweet,
  Dewy buds are blowing.
Comes an owl and grely flits
  Jewell’d ey’d and hooting—
Past the green tree where she sits
  Nightingales are fluting
Soft the wind as rust’ling silk
  On a courtly lady,
Tinkles down the flowing milk
  Huge and still and shady—
Stands the mill-wheel resting still.
  From its loving labor,
Dances on the tireless rill
  Gay as lute or tabor!
“Bouche-Mignonne” it laughing cries
  “Do not blush and tremble;
“If the night has ears and eyes
  “I’ll for thee disemble!
“Loud and clear and sweet I’ll sing
  “Oh my far way straying,
“I will hide the whisper’d thing
  “Pierre to thee is saying.
“Bouche-Mignonne, good night, good night!
  “Ev’ry silver hour
“I will toss my lilies white
  “‘Gainst thy maiden bower!”