Ode to the Lark

Poem by Pierre De Ronsard Collection The MélangesPeriod 16th century

Would any poet well dare
Deny you verses, sweet lark?
As for me, I would not dare;
I wish to celebrate your song
Above all birds that are in cages,
And above all those that are in the woods.

How good it is to hear you! at the hour
When the oxherd ploughs the fields,
When the earth feels the spring,
Which is gayer for your song
Than it is downcast by the wound
Of the ploughshare, which splits its breast.

As soon as you are sprinkled
At daybreak with the dew,
You make a thousand speeches in the air,
In the air you flutter your wings,
And, hung in the sky, you babble,
And tell your loves to the winds.

Then from the sky you let yourself fall
Into a green furrow, either to lay,
Or to hatch, or to brood,
Or to bring the beakful
To your little ones, or from a beetle
Or a caterpillar, or a worm.

Then I, lying on the little grass,
On one side hear your little song;
On the other, upon the thyme,
In the shelter of some fern,
I listen to the young shepherdess
Who babbles out her refrain.

Then I say, you are well happy,
Gentle amorous Lark,
Who have no fear nor care for anything,
Who never in your heart have felt
The disdain of a proud mistress,
Nor the care of amassing wealth.

Or if some care touches you,
It is, when the Sun sets,
To sleep, and to awaken
With your songs along with the Dawn
Both shepherds and passersby still,
To send them off to work.

But I live always in sadness,
For the pride of a mistress
Who pays my faith with torments,
And with a pleasant lie,
Which day and night always lengthens
The long thread of my woes.

Pierre de Ronsard

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-ode-to-the-lark-pierre-de-ronsard/