from the french, a sonnet of ronsard’s 

the year begins its green youth
in green stripe cruel
the seventeenth year being truth
your birthsake in a duel
your child be your continence
the word the step the mouth the bell
your hands before you prominence
your eye on me as well
my love and your beauty lives
it is said in a word
and if those words might spell
it cannot be heard
what gives?
our memory tell

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