Sonnet 144

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With sonnet 143 already posted, let’s move on to no. 144

 

J’iray tousjours et resuant et songeant
En ceste prée où je vy l’angelette,
Qui d’esperance et de crainte m’allaitte,
Et dans ses yeux mes destins va logeant.
 
Quel fil de soye en tresses s’allongeant
Ornoit ce jour sa teste nouvelette ?
De quelle rose, et de quelle fleurette
Sa face alloit, comme Iris, se changeant ?
 
Ce n’estoit point une mortelle femme
Que je vy lors, ny de mortelle dame
Elle n’avoit ny le front ny les yeux.
 
Donques, Raison, ce ne fut chose estrange
Si je fu pris : c’estoit vrayment un Ange,
Qui pour nous prendre estoit venu des Cieux.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            I shall always walk perspiring and dreaming
                                                                            In that meadow where I saw the sweet angel
                                                                            Who breast-feeds me with hope and fear,
                                                                            And who keeps my fortunes in her eyes.
 
                                                                            What thread of silk stretching out in braids
                                                                            That day adorned her sweet fresh head?
                                                                            With what rose, with what sweet flowers
                                                                            Did her face, like Iris, keep changing colour?
 
                                                                            It was certainly not a mortal lady
                                                                            Whom I saw then, nor of mortal woman
                                                                            Did she have the brow nor eyes.
 
                                                                            O Reason, it was not therefore so strange
                                                                            If I was caught; it was truly an angel
                                                                            Who had come from heaven to capture me.

 

 

 

 This is another poem that is not in Blanchemain’s Cassandre – and which I have been too lazy to go and find in his volume of ‘excluded’ poems. Consequently just the plain text to consider today.  And it is one of those poems that is consistently on-theme all the way through, with no switch of direction at the end.
 
Iris in line 8 might need a brief explanation: she was the goddess of the rainbow, hence her changing colours.
 

 

 

 
 
 
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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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