Let them be fat or light, with onions blent,
Shallots, brine, pepper, honey; whether scent
Of sheep or fields is in them, in the yard
Let them, good Lord, at dawn be beaten hard.
And let their edges take on silvery shades
Under the moist red hands of dairymaids;
And, round and greenish, let them go to town
Weighing the shepherd's folding mantle down;
Whether from Parma or from Jura heights,
Kneaded by august hands of Carmelites,
Stamped with the mitre of a proud abbess.
Flowered with the perfumes of the grass of Bresse,
From hollow Holland, from the Vosges, from Brie,
From Roquefort, Gorgonzola, Italy!
Bless them, good Lord! Bless Stilton's royal fare,
Red Cheshire, and the tearful cream Gruyere.
FROM JETHRO BITHELL'S TRANSLATION
OF A POEM BY M. Thomas Braun
_Symphonie des Fromages_
A giant Cantal, seeming to have been chopped open with an ax,
stood aside of a golden-hued Chester and a Swiss Gruyere
resembling the wheel of a Roman chariot There were Dutch Edams,
round and blood-red, and Port-Saluts lined up like soldiers on
parade.
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