42 Delos

Three Poems by Pierre Ronsard 
 

Translation and Commentary: William Calin 
 
 

     Ode 17 
To Cassandra 

 
Sweetness, Let’s go see whether the Rose 
who this morning had opened 
her dress of crimson to the Sun, 
this evening has at all lost 
the pleats of her crimson dress 
and her complexion the same as yours. 
 
Alas! Behold how, in a little space, 
Sweetness, she has, on the spot, alas, alas 
let all her beauties fall! 
O Nature is truly a cruel mother 
since such a flower lasts 
only from morning to evening. 
 
So, if you will believe me, Sweetness, 
while your age is in flower 
in its green newness, 
gather, gather your youth: 
for, the same as this flower, old age 
will tarnish your beauty. 
 
 
                 Ode 17* 
            À Cassandre 

 
Mignonne, allons voir si la Rose 
Qui ce matin avoit desclose 
Sa robe de pourpre au Soleil, 
A point perdu ceste vesprée 
Les plis de sa robe pourprée,  
Et son teint au vostre pareil. 
 
Las! voyez comme en peu d’espace, 
Mignonne, elle a dessus la place 
Las las ses beautez laissé cheoir! 
O vrayment marastre Nature, 
Puis qu’une telle fleur ne dure 
Que du matin jusques au soir! 
 



 Calin 43

Donc, si vous me croyez, Mignonne, 
Tandis que vostre âge fleuronne 
En sa plus verte nouveauté, 
Cueillez, cueillez vostre jeunesse: 
Comme à ceste fleur la vieillesse 
Fera ternir vostre beauté. 
 

   On the Death of Marie 
 
   We see in the month of May on a stem the rose 
In her lovely youth, in her first bloom 
Making Heaven jealous of her vibrant color, 
when Dawn the day begins and waters her with tears: 
 
   Grace in her leaves and Eros resting there, 
she blesses gardens and trees with her perfume: 
yet battered by rain or extreme heat, 
languishing, she dies leaf by leaf. 
 
   Thus, in your first and youthful newness, 
while earth and Heaven honor your beauty, 
Fate kills you, and turns you into ashes. 
 
   For a funeral gift receive my weeping and my tears, 
this vase of milk and this basket of flowers, 
So, dead or alive, your body may ever be roses. 
    
          Sur la mort de Marie 4* 
 
   Comme on voit sur la branche au mois de May la rose 
En sa belle jeunesse, en sa première fleur, 
Rendre la Ciel jaloux de sa vive couleur, 
Quand l’Aube des ses pleurs au poinct du jour l’arrose: 
 
   La grace dans sa feuille, et l’Amour se repose, 
Embasmant les jardins et les arbres d’odeur; 
Mais battue ou de pluye, ou d’excessive ardeur, 
Languissante elle meurt, feuille à feuille declose. 
 
   Ainsi en ta première et jeune nouveauté, 
Quand la terre et le Ciel honoroient ta beauté, 
La Parque t‘a tuée, et cendre tu reposes. 
 
   Pour obsèques reçoi mes larmes et mes pleurs, 
Ce vase plein de laict, ce panier plein de fleurs, 
Afin que vif, et mort, ton corps ne soit que roses. 
 



44 Delos

 
Editor’s Note: Ronsard’s famous Ode No. 17, „Mignonne allons voir si la rose“ 
has been set to music many times, perhaps most recently, performed by 
Dominique Montaulard-Ziani on YouTube: 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLjAFvBwlyK 
 
 

     Last poetry: Sonnets 1 
 
   I am no more than bones, I seem a skeleton, 
fleshless, nerveless, muscleless, pulpless, 
for death’s dart has struck me without appeal, 
I dare not look at my arms lest I tremble from fear. 
   Apollo and his son, two great masters, together 
cannot cure me, their calling deceived me. 
Farewell pleasurable sun, my eyes are blocked, 
my body goes away down to where all falls apart. 
   What friend, seeing me to this extent stripped bare, 
does not return home with sad and tearful eyes, 
consoling me lying in bed and kissing my face, 
in wiping my eyes put to sleep by death? 
   Farewell dear comrades, farewell dear friends, 
I set out first to prepare a place for you. 
 
 

   Derniers vers: Sonnets 1* 
 
   Je n’ay plus que les os, un Squelette je semble, 
Decharné, denervé, demusclé, depoulpé, 
Que le trait dela mort sans pardon a frappé, 
Je n’ose voir mes bras que de peur je ne tremble. 
   Apollon et son fils, deux grans maistres ensemble, 
Ne me sçauroient guerir, leur mestier m’a trompé: 
Adieu plaisant Soleil, mon oeil est estoupé, 
Mon corpse s’en va descendre ou tout se desassemble. 
   Quel amy me voyant en ce poinct despouillé 
Ne remporte au logis un oeil triste et mouillé, 
Me consolant au lict et me baisant la face, 
En essuiant mes yeux par la mort endormis? 
   Adieu chers compagnons, adieu mes chers amis, 
Je m’en vay le premier vous preparer la place. 
 
*Les Oeuvres de Pierre de Ronsard, texte de 1587. Ed. Isidore Silver, 8 
Volumes. Chicago: University of Chicago and Paris: Didier, 1966-70. [III, 104-
05; II, 179; VIII, 104] 
 
 
  



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Commentary; 
Piere de Ronsard is generally recognized as the greatest poet of the 
Renaissance in France. He brought together a group of young poets known as 
the Pleiade. He and his fellow poet Joachim du Bellay authored The Defense 
and Illustration of the French Language, the first in a series of French 
manifestos which continue up today. Ronsard’s own opus is enormous: twenty 
volumes in the Laumonier edition. It contains sonnets, odes (Pindaric and 
Horatian), elegies (epistles) eclogues, hymns (telling of mythical deeds), 
satirical discourses, moral and philosophical poёmes, and an epic. His work is 
of major quality in all registers (sermo gravis, sermo mediocris, and sermo 
humilis). I consider Ronsard to be the greatest French poet, and I place him 
with Dante, Shakespeare, Goethe, Pushkin, Victor Hugo, and Rilke.