The year was growing young again in its green youth
When I fell in love with you, my cruel Sinope;
Sixteen years were the flower of your new age,
And your complexion still smacked of childhood.
You still had the bearing of an infanta,
The speech, and the steps; your mouth was beautiful,
Your forehead and your hands worthy of an Immortal,
And your eye, which makes me die when I think of it.
Love, who that day saw such great beauties,
Wrote them in marble, in my heart with a single stroke;
And if for today your beauties so perfect
Are not as they once were, I am no less delighted,
For I have no regard for what you are now,
But for the sweet memory of the beauties I saw.
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-the-year-was-growing-young-again-in-its-green-youth-pierre-de-ronsard/
