Of the Rose, Poem by Jean-Antoine de Baïf

It is not the daisy,
The marguerite, the lily,
The carnation nor the violet,
The flower in which I have set my heart.

Among flowers I love the rose,
For it bears the name
Of one who has closed my soul
To all other affection.

Among the little flowers, the rose
Wins the honor and the prize:
Perfect among the perfect
Is the Rose that has captured me.

The other rose is seen to be born,
As a daughter of spring,
But a spring takes its being
From this Rose at all times.

The one that is mine, where her train takes its place,
A hundred thousand flowers rise,
And, even upon the ice,
Makes a summer of winter.

This Rose so beloved
Shall not be like the other,
Which, esteemed in the morning,
By evening shall be disesteemed.

For the other rose, withered,
May lose its vigor:
Mine, ever blooming,
Shall flourish within my heart.

Love with sweet dew
Shall water this Rose
When, my bride wed,
He makes her my mistress.

Jean-Antoine de Baïf

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

Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-of-the-rose-jean-antoine-de-baif/