A keresés eredménye

Ronsard To His Soul

Little soul, little Ronsard,
Little sweet one, little soft one,
Dearest hostess of my body,
You descend below, weakling,
Pale, thin, lonely,
To the cold kingdom of the dead:
However simple, without remorse
For murder, poison, and bitterness,
Scorning favours and treasures
So envied by the common man.
 
Passing by, I said: follow your fortune,
Don’t disturb my rest, I’m sleeping.