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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Sonnet: To Angelette

By Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

Translation of Katharine Hillard

HERE through this wood my saintly Angelette

Goes, making springtime blither with her song;

Here lost in smiling thought she strays along,

While on these flowers her little feet are set.

Here is the meadow and the gentle stream

That laughs in ripples by her hand caressed,

As loitering still, she gathers to her breast

The enameled flowers that o’er its wavelets dream.

Here, singing I behold her, there, in tears;

And here she smiles, and there my fancy hears

Her sweet discourse, with boundless blessings rife.

Here sits she down, and there I see her dance;

So with the shuttle of a vague romance,

Love weaves the warp and woof of all my life.