Friday, 21 February 2014

I - Louise Labe

Not Ulysses, no, nor any other man
however astute his mind, ever longed for
that holy face shaded with grace, honor,
respect, more than I sigh for you. Nor can
I turn my gaze, Love, from your handsome eyes,
which wound me deeply in my innocent chest;
and though I have food, warmth, and tenderest
relief, without your hand all my hope dies.
O terrible fate! Suffering the scorpion to feast
on me, I seek protection from the pain
of poison by appealing to the beast
that stings me. Though I beg the sun at dawn
to kill the hurt, if it burns up the stain
of sweet desire, I'll die when it is gone.

Louise Labé (1524 – 1566) France

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