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)

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.

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