To His Soul

Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585).

Sweet little soul of mine,
Tiny being, frail and fine,
Dear-beloved guest within my head

Thou descendest, helpless one,
Poor, pale, friendless one,
To the chilly kingdom of the dead;

Simple still, without remorse
Of murder, poison, spitefulness,
Treasures deigning not to keep

So beloved of common men.
Go, thy fortune seek: then
Stir me not again: I sleep.