Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

Translated by Thomas Ashe

I SHALL go wander dreaming, many a day,

In this dear mead, wherein my love I met,

While fear and hope my prison’d fancy fret,

Through her, whose eyes my will and wish obey:

What silken threads of shining tresses lay

On her white neck I never can forget;

The hues of rose and lilies haunt me yet,

With such soft changes on her cheek a-play.

She, I beheld, of any earthly dame

Had not, good sooth, the forehead or the eyes:

It was no mortal down my meadow came;

An angel was this damsel, it is plain,

My heart to snare, new-lighted from the skies:

No wonder was it I was captive ta’en.