Pierre de Ronsard Poems

Fair flower of fifteen springs, that still
Art scarcely blossomed from the bud,
Yet hast such store of evil will,
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Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon;
So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest
Loving and unawakened on thy breast;
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If to love, Madam, is to dream and long
and brood by day and night on means of pleasing you,
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I send you here a wreath of blossoms blown,
And woven flowers at sunset gathered,
Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed
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See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose,

That this morning did unclose
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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!
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A hundred times I wish I could transform myself
And become an invisible spirit that hides inside your heart
And seeks to comprehend your scorn
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As in the gardens, all through May, the rose,
Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled,
Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red,
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All take these lips away; no more,
No more such kisses give to me.
My spirit faints for joy; I see
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Twain that were foes, while Mary lived, are fled;
One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one
Beneath the earth has fared, a fallen sun,
...