Sonnet 29

De vos yeus, le mirouer du Ciel et de Nature,
La retraite d’Amour, la forge de ses dards,
D’où coule une douceur, que versent vos regards
Au cœur, quand un rayon y survient d’aventure,
Je tire pour ma vie une douce pasture,
Une joye, un plaisir, que les plus grands Cesars
Au milieu du triomphe, entre un camp de soudars,
Ne sentirent jamais : mais courte elle me dure.
Je la sens distiller goutte à goutte en mon cœur,
Pure saincte parfaicte angelique liqueur,
Qui m’eschaufe le sang d’une chaleur extrème.
Mon ame la reçoit avecque tel plaisir,
Que tout esvanouy je n’ay pas le loisir
Ny de gouster mon bien, ny penser à moymesme.
                                                                               From your eyes, the mirror of Heaven and Nature,
                                                                               Love’s retreat and the forge of his arrows,
                                                                               Whence flows a sweetness which your glances pour
                                                                               Into the heart, when some ray by chance reaches it,
                                                                               [From them] I draw sweet sustenance for my life,
                                                                               A joy, a pleasure, that the greatest Caesars
                                                                               In the midst of their triumphs, surrounded by their troops,
                                                                               Never felt; but it lasts only a short while.
                                                                               I feel it distil drop by drop in my heart,
                                                                               A pure, holy, perfect, angelic liquor
                                                                               Which warms my blood with its excessive heat.
                                                                               My soul drinks it in with such pleasure
                                                                               That, entirely overcome, I have no time
                                                                               To taste my good-fortune, nor to think of myself.
 Blanchemain offers a minor variant in line 12, “Mon ame la reçoit avec un tel plaisir” – personally I think the line flows slightly better with this version, but I don’t have Ronsard’s ear!

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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