What, my soul, do you sleep benumbed in your mass

Poem by Pierre De Ronsard Collection Last Verses (Ronsard)Period 16th century

What, my soul, do you sleep benumbed in your mass?
The trumpet has sounded, pack your baggage, and go
By the deserted path that Jesus found,
When all soaked in blood he redeemed our race.

It is a grievous path bounded by little space,
Traced by few people, which the bramble paved,
Where the pricking thistle raised its heads,
Take courage nonetheless, and do not leave the place.

Do not put your hand to the plow, afterward
To fix your plow in the middle of the fallow fields,
Turning back your gaze again and again:

One must not begin, or wholly employ oneself,
One must not lead, then leave the plow.
Whoever leaves his trade, is not worthy of the reward.

Pierre de Ronsard

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

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