Louise Labé (c. 1520–1566)

Translated by Arthur Platt

LONG as I still can shed tears from mine eyes

My bliss with thee regretting once again,

And while my voice, though in a weaker strain,

Can speak a little, checking sobs and sighs,—

Long as my hand can tune the harmonies

Of my bold lute to sing thy graces fain,

And while my spirit shall content remain,

Thee understanding, nothing else to prize,

So long I do not yet desire to die;

But when I feel mine eyes are growing dry,

Broken my voice, my hand devoid of skill,

My spirit in this its dwelling-place of clay

Able no more to shew I love thee still,

I shall pray Death to blot my clearest day.