A poem round and perfect as a star.

In winter, when the dismal rain Comes down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines.

Some books are drenched sands On which a great soul's wealth lies all in heaps, Like a wrecked argosy.

Like a pale martyr in his shirt of fire.

At length I saw a lady within call, Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, a la chandelle, Assise aupres du feu, devidant et filant, Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous emerveillant: 'Ronsard me c…

A thousand golden sheaves were lying there, Shining and still, but not for long to stay- As if a thousand girls with golden hair Might rise from where they sle…