Ronsard loved this body,
Bangled, cinnamon linen dressed,
Scarved in ribbed wool.
At my nibbled throat his jade glimmers.
It was he who gave it.
The vase is overturned,
Pours moonlight from its wide mouth
Over the terrace flagstones,
Spills lacquer down the rim
Among the wailing cereus blooms
Among the cups and dishes on the table.
Donkey! He bristles with paper.
New poems have knotted his joints.
Mon vieux, he can't do any more.
Ronsard, full of sleep,
Grown old in the praise of my body,
Nothing it costs the moon to enamel the garden.