Up! Let my soul then go serve its soul

Poem by Théodore Agrippa D'Aubigné Period 16th century

Up! Let my soul then go serve its soul
And let this body not be useless to its lady!
First I pray with joined hands to the gods
Moved by my ardor, that they make of my eyes
Two brilliant diamonds on which the soft boldness
Of the sharpened chisel leaves no trace,
No more than on my heart one could ever see
That iron or fire had any power.
It will be to please the murderous sight
That drew from my eyes my heart unawares,
It will be to adorn both the hands and the fingers
That held my life enslaved under its laws.
May my teeth by the heavens be made immortal
Changed forever into just as many pearls
Without stain or darkness, as without stain too
Was my love, my soul, and my faith until now.
It will be to bind that obstinate courage
To return for love the pain and the harm,
It will be to bind her hair in a ring,
To embellish her head and crown her brow.
My skin will serve her as a veritable ocagne
Better than any comes from half-Moorish Spain,
To shield from the heat of the outrageous sun
The hands of my murderess, so that I wish
To guard against the fire what turns me to ash,
And for a thousand crimes render her such service.
And you, my nerves, weary of pulling my misfortunes,
I wish that hereafter you sing my sorrows
On the enchanting lute that my proud mistress
On hearing of my death will throw in anger
On the back of her bed. Change, hardened heart,
Change, obstinate heart, change your name as well:
You have loved the blows and the stings
And you take pleasure and favor in wounds;
When my eyes are closed in eternal sleep,
You will have an office and torment alike:
You will serve Diane and on the same breaches
That a thousand bloody arrows made in you
You will be keeper of the pins that in the evening
Her delicate hand will make you receive,
Those that repaired her face with black satin,
Or that pricked my fingers punished for my boldness.
Flow, irritated blood, and after my misfortune
Do not yet change your native color,
Make yourself her vermilion, O blessed wound,
That pushing on my blood my languorous soul
Gives her this solace that at the end of my sorrows
So many vivid colors will be reborn from my death
That will make my severe one, like no other,
In the luster of my blood shine more vermilion…

Théodore Agrippa d’Aubigné

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-up-let-my-soul-then-go-serve-its-soul-theodore-agrippa-d-aubigne/