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Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown, High-waisted, girdled with bright blue; A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown She pluckered her little brows into As she picked her dainty passage through The dusty street. Ah, Mademoiselle, A dirty pathway, we need rain, My poor fruits suffer, and the shell Of this nuts too big for its kernel, lain Here in the sun it has shrunk again. The baker down at the corner says We need a battle to shake the clouds; But I am a man of peace, my ways Dont look to the killing of men in crowds. Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds! Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun. Let me dust off that wicker chair. Its cool In here, for the green leaves I have run In a curtain over the door, make a pool Of shade. You see the pears on that stool -- The shadow keeps them plump and fair. Over the fruiterers door, the leaves Held back the sun, a greenish flare Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves, Shot from the golden letters, broke | 
