Ronsard

He was called the prince of poets, incredible.


Pierre de Ronsard
from Sonnets pour Hélène

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.

Lors, vous n'aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s'aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.

Je serai sous la terre et fantôme sans os :
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos :
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,

Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m'en croyez, n'attendez à demain :
Cueillez dès aujourd'hui les roses de la vie.


See a translation/explanation here.


To dodge sleep. I'm looking up old French poetry. Gerard got us to memorise either poetry or lyrics to a pop song for a French speaking exam and I chose the poetry even though it was harder. I knew that if I had to memorise something, it would remain in my head/heart and I wanted that thing to be worthwhile. Lyrics to a pop song would not move me, whereas I knew this poem would. I hated it when I first read it. His arrogance infuriated me. I was quite the little feminist in high school, so him saying that if she didn't choose him she'd regret it when she was old and sitting by the fireplace pissed me off. As if she didn't have better prospects. And as if his poetry was so incredible that he could call it 'louange immortelle' but I didn't know he was so well regarded in his time. Even so, arrogance much? Such a prick. But I've enjoyed reciting it to myself many, many times while walking places.


Yeats was apparently inspired by Ronsard and wrote this poem... quite interesting, much much less arrogant.



William Butler Yeats
When You Are Old


When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.



Voila,

Cathrine

P.S. Famer In The Dell, in French. This kills Ronsard. :P