Dernier vers – sonnet 6

Il faut laisser maisons et vergers et Jardins,
Vaisselles et vaisseaux que l’artisan burine,
Et chanter son obseque en la façon du Cygne,
Qui chante son trespas sur les bors Maeandrins.

C’est fait j’ay devidé le cours de mes destins,
J’ay vescu, j’ay rendu mon nom assez insigne,
Ma plume vole au ciel pour estre quelque signe
Loin des appas mondains qui trompent les plus fins.

Heureux qui ne fut onc, plus heureux qui retourne
En rien comme il estoit, plus heureux qui sejourne
D’homme fait nouvel ange aupres de Jesuchrist,

Laissant pourrir ça bas sa despouille de boüe
Dont le sort, la fortune, et le destin se joüe,
Franc des liens du corps pour n’estre qu’un esprit.

                                                                                                  Time to leave home and orchards and gardens,
                                                                                                  Plates and cups which the craftsman engraved,
                                                                                                  And sing our funeral song like the swan
                                                                                                  Who sings out his death on the banks of the Mæander.
                                                                                                  It is finished. I have run through my fated course,
                                                                                                  I have lived, I have made my name pretty famous,
                                                                                                  My pen flies heavenward to become a symbol
                                                                                                  Far from the worldly charms which deceive the best of us.
                                                                                                  Happy he who never was, happier he who returns
                                                                                                  Nothing like what he was, happiest he who rests,
                                                                                                  Changed from man to a new angel at the side of Christ,
                                                                                                  Leaving the dirt of his remains to rot down here,
                                                                                                  The sport of chance, luck and fate,
                                                                                                  Free from the ties of the body to be simply a spirit.
A really beautiful excerpt from Ronsard’s “Last poems”. Elegantly weighted, and beautifully balanced.

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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