I do not write of love: I am no lover. I do not write of beauty: I have no woman. I do not write of gentleness but the human rudeness I see. And my pleasures are all over, so I do not try to write of pleasure, but only misery. Favors? No, I am on my own. I do not write of riches: I have none. Or of life at court, when I’m far from it and lonely. I do not write of health, for I’m often ill. I cannot write of France from a Roman hill. Or honor? I see so little of that about. I cannot write of friendship but only pretence. I will not write of virtue, here in its absence. Or knowledge or faith, in ignorance and doubt.
From The Regrets by Joachim du Bellay. English translation copyright © 2003 by Northwestern University Press. Reprinted by permission of Northwestern University Press. All rights reserved.
I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
enough
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
enough
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.
I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.
English translation, translator's introduction, and translator's notes copyright © 2001 by Annemarie S. Kidder. Published 2001. All rights reserved.