I do like to post the occasional romantic poem and especially sonnets. Here is one from the great French sixteenth century poet Pierr de Ronsard with my attempt at a translation
Comme on voyst sur la branche au moys de May la rose En sa belle jeunesse, en sa premiere fleur Rendre le ciel jaloux de sa vive couleur, Quand l'Aube de ses pleurs au poynct du jour l'arrose : La grasce dans sa feuille, et l'amour se repose Embalmant les jardins et les arbres d'odeur : Mais battue ou de pluye, ou d'excessive ardeur, Languissante elle meurt feuille a feuille desclose : Ainsi en ta premiere et jeune nouveaute, Quand la terre et le ciel honoroyent ta beaute, La Parque t'a tuee, et cendre tu reposes. Pour obseques rescoys mes larmes et mes pleurs, ] Ce vase plain de laict, ce panier plain de fleurs, A fin que vif, et mort, ton corps ne soyt que roses On seeing on the branch each month of May the rose In loveliness of youth the first bloom of the year Render heaven jealous so bright it does appear Which the dawn with his tears at point of day oerflows The grace found in its leaf, the love that in it grows Scenting all the garden the trees that smell so clear: But battered with the rain, and each excessive tear, Languishing it dies then and leaf by leaf must close : And so in your first youth, full of youth and duty When earth and sky would meet honouring your beauty The Fates have killed you now, in ashes you repose In obsequy receive my weeping all my hours, This vessel full of milk, this basket full of flowers, So that alive and dead, you rest always a rose
