Give Me Your Gifts in These Days When the Mist

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

Give me your gifts in these days when the Mist
Makes them the shortest of the year, or with your branch dipped
In the stream of Oblivion, pressed upon my brow,
End my poor eyes, my drops, and my cold.

Mercy, O God, O God, do not consume me
For lack of sleep; rather let me be forced
To see myself extinguished by plague or fever,
Which lights my dried blood in my veins.

Happy, a hundred times happy animals who sleep
Half the year in your holes, shut beneath the earth,
Without eating the poppy that stuns all the senses:

I have eaten of it, I have drunk its forgetful juice
In salad, cooked or raw, and yet sleep
Does not come by its coldness to sit upon my eyes.

Pierre de Ronsard

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