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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        5
  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        10
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.
 
 
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