Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

Translated by Robert, Earl of Lytton

FOLLOW, my Page, where the green grass embosoms

The enamelled season’s freshest-fallen dew;

Then home, and my still house with handfuls strew

Of frail-lived April’s newliest nurtured blossoms.

Take from the wall now, my song-tunëd lyre;

Here will I sit and charm out the sweet pain

Of a dark eye whose light hath burned my brain;

The unloving loveliness of my desire!

And here my ink, and here my papers, place:—

A hundred leaves of white whereon to trace

A hundred words of desultory woe—

Words which shall last, like graven diamonds, sure;—

That, some day hence, a future race may know

And ponder on the pain which I endure.