Pierre de Ronsard
Pierre de Ronsard (11 September 1524 – 28 December 1585) was a French poet and "prince of poets" (as his own generation in France called him).
Pierre de Ronsard was born at the Manoir de la Possonnière, in the village of Couture-sur-Loir, Vendômois (in present-day Loir-et-Cher). Baudouin de Ronsard or Rossart was the founder of the French branch of the house, and made his mark... more »
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Pierre de Ronsard Poems
I send you here a wreath of blossoms blown, And woven flowers at sunset gathered, Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown.
To His Young Mistress
Fair flower of fifteen springs, that still Art scarcely blossomed from the bud, Yet hast such store of evil will, A heart so full of hardihood,
See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose, That this morning did unclose Her purple mantle to the light, Lost, before the day be dead,
On His Ladies Waking
My lady woke upon a morning fair, What time Apollo’s chariot takes the skies, And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes His empty quiver, Love was standing there:
To The Moon
Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon; So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest Loving and unawakened on thy breast; So shall no foul enchanter importune
All take these lips away; no more, No more such kisses give to me. My spirit faints for joy; I see Through mists of death the dreamy shore,
As in the gardens, all through May, the rose, Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled, Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;
His Ladys Death
Twain that were foes, while Mary lived, are fled; One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one Beneath the earth has fared, a fallen sun, A light of love among the loveless dead.
Comments about Pierre de Ronsard
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
I send you here a wreath of blossoms blown,
And woven flowers at sunset gathered,
Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed
Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown.
By this, their sure example, be it known,
That all your beauties, now in perfect flower,
Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour,
Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown.
Ah, time is flying, lady - time is flying;
Nay, ’tis not time that flies but we that go,
Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying,
And of our loving parley none shall know,
Nor any man ...