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14 Juillet 2016 , Rédigé par Mermed Publié dans #sonnets

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.

He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:

But when your countenance filled up his line,
Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

Ses augustes vers filant à pleine voilure

vers toi - récompense si précieuse - ont-ils

inhumés en mon esprit mes pensées mûres,

faisant une tombe du sein qui les nourrit.

Ce génie, initié par d'autres aux mots

d'outre-rêves, m'a t'il voué au silence?

Non, ni lui, ni ses compagnons, renforts

de ses nuits, n'ont chamboulé mes romances.

Lui, ni son affable fantôme familier

qui le gonfle de savoir chaque nuit,

de mon silence ne peuvent se targuer;