April, joy of the green hours, Clothes with flowers Over all her locks of gold My sweet Lady; and her breast With the blest Birds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles, Like the smiles, Smiles of Venus; and thy breath Like her breath, the Gods' delight, (From their height They take the happy air beneath;)It is thou that, of thy grace, From their place In the far-oft isles dost bring Swallows over earth and sea, Glad to be Messengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine, And woodbine, Lily, violet, and rose Plentiful in April fair, To the air, Their pretty petals do unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear, Piercing clear, Singing in the deepest shade;Many and many a babbled note Chime and float, Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee, Spring sets free Ancient flames, and with low breath Wakes the ashes grey and old That the cold Chilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warm Hours, the swarm Of the thievish bees, that flies Evermore from bloom to bloom For perfume, Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast, Fruits almost Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew, Manna-sweet and honey-sweet, That complete Her flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praise, To these days, Named with the glad name of Her That from out the foam o' the sea Came to be Sudden light on earth and air.
ROSES.
RONSARD, 1550.
I SEND you here a wreath of blossoms blown, And woven flowers at sunset gathered, Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown.
By this, their sure example, be it known, That all your beauties, now in perfect flower, Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour, Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown.
Ah, time is flying, lady - time is flying;Nay, 'tis not time that flies but we that go, Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying, And of our loving parley none shall know, Nor any man consider what we were;Be therefore kind, my love, whiles thou art fair.
THE ROSE.
RONSARD, 1550.
SEE, Mignonne, hath not the Rose, That this morning did unclose Her purple mantle to the light, Lost, before the day be dead, The glory of her raiment red, Her colour, bright as yours is bright?
Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours, The petals of her purple flowers All have faded, fallen, died;Sad Nature, mother ruinous, That seest thy fair child perish thus 'Twixt matin song and even tide.
Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth, Gather the fleet flower of your youth, Take ye your pleasure at the best;Be merry ere your beauty flit, For length of days will tarnish it Like roses that were loveliest.
TO THE MOON.
RONSARD, 1550.
HIDE this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon;So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest Loving and unawakened on thy breast;So shall no foul enchanter importune Thy quiet course; for now the night is boon, And through the friendly night unseen I fare, Who dread the face of foemen unaware, And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.
Thou knowest, Moon, the bitter power of Love;'Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move, For little price, thy heart; and of your grace, Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire, Because on earth ye did not scorn desire, Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place.
TO HIS YOUNG MISTRESS.
RONSARD, 1550.
FAIR flower of fifteen springs, that still Art scarcely blossomed from the bud, Yet hast such store of evil will, A heart so full of hardihood, Seeking to hide in friendly wise The mischief of your mocking eyes.
If you have pity, child, give o'er;
Give back the heart you stole from me, Pirate, setting so little store On this your captive from Love's sea, Holding his misery for gain, And making pleasure of his pain.
Another, not so fair of face, But far more pitiful than you, Would take my heart, if of his grace, My heart would give her of Love's due;And she shall have it, since I find That you are cruel and unkind.
Nay, I would rather that it died, Within your white hands prisoning, Would rather that it still abide In your ungentle comforting.
Than change its faith, and seek to her That is more kind, but not so fair.
DEADLY KISSES.
RONSARD, 1550.
All take these lips away; no more, No more such kisses give to me.
My spirit faints for joy; I see Through mists of death the dreamy shore, And meadows by the water-side, Where all about the Hollow Land Fare the sweet singers that have died, With their lost ladies, hand in hand;Ah, Love, how fireless are their eyes, How pale their lips that kiss and smile!
So mine must be in little while If thou wilt kiss me in such wise.
OF HIS LADY'S OLD AGE.
RONSARD, 1550
WHEN you are very old, at evening You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, Humming my songs, 'Ah well, ah well-a-day!
When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.'
None of your maidens that doth hear the thing, Albeit with her weary task foredone, But wakens at my name, and calls you one Blest, to be held in long remembering.
I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade, While you beside the fire, a grandame grey, My love, your pride, remember and regret;Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet, And gather roses, while 'tis called to-day.
ON HIS LADY'S WAKING.
RONSARD, 1550
MY lady woke upon a morning fair, What time Apollo's chariot takes the skies, And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes His empty quiver, Love was standing there:
I saw two apples that her breast doth bear None such the close of the Hesperides Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these, Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care.
Even such a bosom, and so fair it was, Pure as the perfect work of Phidias, That sad Andromeda's discomfiture Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day, And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay, With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.
HIS LADY'S DEATH.
RONSARD, 1550.
TWAIN that were foes, while Mary lived, are fled;One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one Beneath the earth has fared, a fallen sun, A light of love among the loveless dead.
