À une Mendiante rousse

So I did the math and I realized that I only have about 40 poems left until this whole thing is through. I guess this means I will accomplish my goal, unless of course some kind of tragic situation befalls me. I am a little sad; I have grown used to these poems and this blog. I will also have to find another project to keep me from having to realize that I have to do something with my life. So it goes.

This poem is horribly translated. Uh oh.

To a Red-haired Beggar
White girl with red hair,
Whose dress by its holes
Lets show the poverty
And the beauty,

For me, sickly poet,
Your morbid young body,
Full of red patches
Has its softness.

You bear more gallantly
Than a romance queen
Her velvet boots
Your heavy clogs.

In the place of too-short tatters,
Let a magnificent court dress
Train in long and loud folds
Over your heels;

In the place of holey stockings
Let the eyes of the sly
Over your leg a dagger of gold
Still glisten;

Let poorly fastened knots
Unveil for our sins
Your two beautiful breasts, radiant
Like eyes;

In order to undress you let
Your arms require begging
And drive away with mischievous blows
The puckish fingers,

Pearls from the most beautiful waters,
Sonnets by master Belleau
Put into irons by your romantics
Offered ceaselessly,

Troop of rhymers
Dedicating their first fruits to you
And contemplating your shoes
Under the stairs,


Many a boy besotted by fate,
Many a lord and many a Ronsard
For amusement would spy on
Your chilly hole!

You would count in your bed
More kisses than lilies
And you would arrange under your laws
More than one Valois!

—However, you go begging
Some old scraps lying
In the threshold of some Vefour
Of the crossroads;

You go ogling at
The cheap jewels
Which I cannot, oh! Pardon!
Make a gift for you.

Go then, without any other ornament,
Perfume, pearls, diamonds,
Than your meager nudity,
Oh my beauty!

À une Mendiante rousse
Blanche fille aux cheveux roux,
Dont la robe par ses trous
Laisse voir la pauvreté
Et la beauté,

Pour moi, poète chétif,
Ton jeune corps maladif,
Plein de taches de rousseur,
À sa douceur.

Tu portes plus galamment
Qu'une reine de roman
Ses cothurnes de velours
Tes sabots lourds.

Au lieu d'un haillon trop court,
Qu'un superbe habit de cour
Traîne à plis bruyants et longs
Sur tes talons;

En place de bas troués
Que pour les yeux des roués
Sur ta jambe un poignard d'or
Reluise encor;

Que des noeuds mal attachés
Dévoilent pour nos péchés
Tes deux beaux seins, radieux
Comme des yeux;

Que pour te déshabiller
Tes bras se fassent prier
Et chassent à coups mutins
Les doigts lutins,

Perles de la plus belle eau,
Sonnets de maître Belleau
Par tes galants mis aux fers
Sans cesse offerts,

Valetaille de rimeurs
Te dédiant leurs primeurs
Et contemplant ton soulier
Sous l'escalier,

Maint page épris du hasard,
Maint seigneur et maint Ronsard
Epieraient pour le déduit
Ton frais réduit!

Tu compterais dans tes lits
Plus de baisers que de lis
Et rangerais sous tes lois
Plus d'un Valois!

— Cependant tu vas gueusant
Quelque vieux débris gisant
Au seuil de quelque Véfour
De carrefour;

Tu vas lorgnant en dessous
Des bijoux de vingt-neuf sous
Dont je ne puis, oh! Pardon!
Te faire don.

Va donc, sans autre ornement,
Parfum, perles, diamant,
Que ta maigre nudité,
Ô ma beauté!
---

And today was the day that I realized that I love absolutely no one. It's okay, I think.