Ne reprenez, dame, si j'ai aime , Si j'ai senti mille torches ardentes, Mille travaux, mille douleurs mordantes, Si, en pleurant, j'ai mon temps consume . Do not blame me, madam, if I loved, If I felt one thousand burning torches, One thousand labours, or one thousand scathing pains, If, in crying, I spent all my time.
How silent, how spacious, what room for all, yet without place to insert an atom--in graceful succession, in equal fullness, in balanced beauty, the dance of the hours goes forward still. Like an odor of incense, like a strain of music, like a sleep, it is inexact and boundless. It will not be dissected, nor unraveled, nor shown.