Amours 1.184

Veufue maison des beaux yeux de ma Dame,
Qui pres et loin me paissent de douleur,
Je t’accompare à quelque pré sans fleur,
A quelque corps orfelin de son ame.
L’honneur du ciel est-ce pas ceste flame,
Qui donne à tous et lumiere et chaleur ?
Ton ornement est-ce pas la valeur
De son bel œil, dont la force me pâme ?
Soient tes buffets chargez de masses d’or,
Et soient tes murs retapissez encor
De broderie en fils d’or enlassée :
Cela, Maison, ne me peut resjouyr,
Sans voir chez toy ceste Dame, et l’ouyr,
Que j’oy tousjours, et voy dans ma pensee.
                                                                            House deprived of my Lady’s fair eyes,
                                                                            Which near or far feed me with grief,
                                                                            I compare you to some meadow without flowers,
                                                                            To some body orphaned of its soul.
                                                                            Is not the glory of heaven that flame
                                                                            Which gives to all light and heat?
                                                                            Is not your ornament the power
                                                                            Of her fair eyes, whose force makes me faint?
                                                                            Were your sideboards piled with heavy gold,
                                                                            Were your walls covered too
                                                                            With embroideries woven with gold threads,
                                                                            That cannot make me happy, o house,
                                                                            Without seeing within you that Lady, and hearing her,
                                                                            Whom I hear and see always within my thoughts.

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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