Sonnet 11

Je voy tousjours le traict de ceste belle face
Dont le corps est en terre, et l’esprit est aux cieux :
Soit que je veille ou dorme, Amour ingenieux
En cent mille façons devant moy le repasse.
Elle qui n’a soucy de ceste terre basse,
Et qui boit du Nectar assise entre les Dieux,
Daigne souvent revoir mon estat soucieux,
Et en songe appaiser la Mort qui me menace.
Je songe que la nuict elle me prend la main,
Se faschant de me voir si long temps la survivre,
Me tire, et fait semblant que de mon voile humain
Veut rompre le fardeau pour estre plus delivre,
Mais partant de mon lict son vol est si soudain
Et si prompt vers le ciel, que je ne la puis suivre.


                                                                                             I see always the look of that fair face
                                                                                             Whose body is in earth, whose spirit is in the heavens;
                                                                                             Whether I wake or sleep, cunning Love
                                                                                             Brings it back before me in a hundred thousand ways.
                                                                                             She who has no cares in this base earth
                                                                                             And who drinks Nectar, seated amongst the gods,
                                                                                             Often deigns to glance back at my care-full state,
                                                                                             And in dreams soothes Death who threatens me.
                                                                                             I dream that at night she takes my hand,
                                                                                             Upset at seeing me survive her so long,
                                                                                             She draws me after and appears to try to break
                                                                                             The burden of my human veil so that I can be more free
                                                                                             But on parting from my bed her flight is so sudden
                                                                                             And so quick towards heaven, that I cannot follow her.



About fattoxxon

Who am I? Lover of all sorts of music - classical, medieval, world (anything from Africa), world-classical (Uzbek & Iraqi magam for instance), and virtually anything that won't be on the music charts... Lover of Ronsard's poetry (obviously) and of sonnets in general. Reader of English, French, Latin & other literature. And who is Fattoxxon? An allusion to an Uzbek singer - pronounce it Patahan, with a very plosive 'P' and a throaty 'h', as in 'khan')

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