Pierre de Ronsard
Pierre de Ronsard (11 September 1524 – December 1585) was a French poet and "prince of poets" (as his own generation in France called him).
His popularity in his own time was overwhelming and immediate, and his prosperity was unbroken. He published his Hymns, dedicated to Margaret de Valois, in 1555; the conclusion of the Amours, addressed to another heroine, in 1556; and then a collection of Œuvres completes, said to be due to the invitation of Mary Stuart, queen of Francis II, in 1560; with Elégies, mascarades et bergeries in 1565. To this same year belongs his most important and interesting Abrégé de l'art poétique français.
The rapid change of sovereigns ... more »
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Pierre de Ronsard Poems
To His Young Mistress
Fair flower of fifteen springs, that still Art scarcely blossomed from the bud, Yet hast such store of evil will,
Sonnets For Hélène . . extract
If to love, Madam, is to dream and long and brood by day and night on means of pleasing you,
See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose, That this morning did unclose
Bonjour mon coeur, bonjour ma douce vie
Je voudrais bien richement jaunissant
Marie, vous avez la joue aussi vermeille
Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
Of His Ladies Old Age
When you are very old, at evening You’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah well-a-day!
Marie, levez-vous, ma jeune paresseuse
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, ...
I send you here a wreath of blossoms blown, And woven flowers at sunset gathered, Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed
Vu que tu es plus blanche
Comments about Pierre de Ronsard
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
To His Young Mistress
Fair flower of fifteen springs, that still
Art scarcely blossomed from the bud,
Yet hast such store of evil will,
A heart so full of hardihood,
Seeking to hide in friendly wise
The mischief of your mocking eyes.
If you have pity, child, give o’er;
Give back the heart you stole from me,
Pirate, setting so little store
On this your captive from Love’s sea,
Holding his misery for gain,
And making pleasure of his pain.
Another, not so fair of face,
But far more pitiful than you,