To His Soul

Poem by Pierre De Ronsard Collection The MélangesPeriod 16th century

Little soul of Ronsard, tiny,
Dainty little one, sweet little one,
Dearest hostess of my body,
You descend down there, feeble little one,
Pale, thin little one, lonely little one,
Into the cold Kingdom of the dead:
Yet simple, without reproach
Of murder, poison, or rancor,
Despising favors and treasures
So envied by the common crowd.

Passerby, I have said, follow your fortune
Do not disturb my rest, I sleep.

Pierre de Ronsard

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

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