La Belle Porchère

La porchère va remplir l’auge
De son mouillé d’eau de vaisselle.
Les deux bras nus jusqu’à l’aisselle,
Elle va, vient, court et patauge.

— L’air est plein d’une odeur de sauge.
La lumière partout ruisselle.
La porchère va remplir l’auge
De son mouillé d’eau de vaisselle.

Et ma foi ! mon désir se jauge
Aux charmes de la jouvencelle :
Je suis fou de cette pucelle.
Allons ! verrats, quittez la bauge !
La porchère va remplir l’auge.

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"La Belle Porchère" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 8 Apr. 2020. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/27550/la-belle-porchère>.

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