Pierre de Ronsard Sonnet

With thanks to my friend Edward for introducing me to this one:

I fly the crowded roads where thousands hurry,
and fly the populous town for rock and wood,
those friends, who know how well their natures marry
with my strange temper and my solitude.
Am I alone, when love, my secretary,
follows my halting steps, as though he could
with his immortal voice bid Time to tarry
while he repeats the pains I have withstood?
Often indeed, when most my sorrows fret me,
I stop to wonder, "Does she speak, my pretty,
or think of him who loves her -- or forget me
because my agony outruns her pity?"
And thus, though knowing it is false, I feign
to dream of pleasure while I live in pain.

~Pierre de Ronsard


Translated by Humbert Wolfe