noon
He felt softened toward her only ; and he turned his back on the Quartier Latin with a man 's easy satisfaction that he could forget . On the sloping market-place , In the village of Compeigne , Every Saturday her face , Like a Sunday , comes again ; Daylight finds her in her seat , With her panier at her feet , Where her pigeons lie in pairs ; Like their plumage gray her gown , To her sabots drooping down ; And a kerchief , brightly brown , Binds her smooth , dark hairs . All the buyers knew her well , And , perforce , her face must see , As a holy Raphael Lures us in a gallery ; Round about the rustics gape , Drinking in her comely shape , And the housewives gently speak , When into her eyes they look , As within some holy book , And the gables , high and crook , Fling their sunshine on her cheek . In her hands two milk-white doves , Happy in her lap to lie , Softly murmur of their loves , Envied by the passers-by ; One by one their flight they take , Bought and cherished for her sake , Leaving so reluctantly ; Till the shadows close approach , Fades the pageant , foot and coach , And the giants in the cloche Ring the noon for Picardie . Round the village see her glide , With a slender sunbeam 's pace ! Mirrored in the Oise 's tide , The gold-fish float upon her face ; All the soldiers touch their caps ; In the cafés quit their naps Garçon , guest , to wish her back ; And the fat old beadles smile As she kneels along the aisle , Like Pucelle in other while , In the dim church of Saint Jacques . Now she mounts her dappled ass -- He well-pleased such friend to know -- And right merrily they pass The armorial château ; Down the long , straight paths they tread Till the forest , overhead , Whispers low its leafy love ; In the archways ' green caress Rides the wondrous dryadess -- Thrills the grass beneath her press , And the blue-eyed sky above .