by Pierre de Ronsard (1524 - 1585)
Translation © by David Wyatt

À sa Muse
Language: French (Français) 
Available translation(s): ENG
Plus dur que fer, j’ai fini mon ouvrage,
Que l’an dispost à demener les pas,
Ne l’eau rongearde ou des freres la rage
L’injuriant ne ruront point à bas :
Quand ce viendra que mon dernier trespas
M’asouspira d’un somme dur : à l’heure
Sous le tumbeau tout Ronsard n’ira pas
Restant de lui la part qui est meilleure.
Tousjours tousjours, sans que jamais je meure
Je volerai tout vif par l’univers,
Eternizant les champs ou je demeure
De mon renom engressés & couvers :
Pour avoir joint les deus harpeurs divers
Au dous babil de ma lire d’ivoire,
Se connoissans Vandomois par mes vers.
Sus donque Muse emporte au ciel la gloire
Que j’ai gaignée annonçant la victoire
Dont à bon droit je me voi jouissant,
Et de ton fils consacre la memoire
Serrant son front d’un laurier verdissant.


Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)

    [ None yet in the database ]

Settings in other languages, adaptations, or excerpts:

  • Also set in French (Français), [adaptation] ; composed by Maurice Delage.

Other available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • ENG English (David Wyatt) , "To his muse", copyright © 2017, (re)printed on this website with kind permission

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2014-09-13
Line count: 20
Word count: 140

To his muse
Language: English  after the French (Français) 
I’ve finished my work : it is harder than iron,
And years, apt to drag off our steps,
Or water which grinds down, or the rage of the Twins
Which breaks everything, will not bring this work down.
When it happens that my eventual death
Will lull me with a hard sleep, at that moment
All of Ronsard will not go into the tomb,
For the best part of him will remain.
Forever, forever, never dying,
I shall fly like a swan through the world,
Making eternal the fields where I’ve lived, 
Clothed in my laurels and my renown,
For having joined those two different harpers
With the sweet babble of my ivory lyre,
Whom I made Vendome’s through my verse.
Up then, Muse, carry to the heavens the glory
Which I’ve won, announcing the victory
Which I rightly see myself enjoying,
And consecrate the memory of your son
Crowning my brow with green laurel.


  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2017 by David Wyatt, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.

Based on


This text was added to the website: 2017-06-10
Line count: 20
Word count: 155