Here’s a French sonnet that I love along with it’s translation. It’s taken from Les Regrets, XXXI written by Joachim du Bellay in 1558.
Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage,
Ou comme cestuy-là qui conquit la toison,
Et puis est retourné, plein d’usage et raison,
Vivre entre ses parents le reste de son âge !
Quand reverrai-je, hélas, de mon petit village
Fumer la cheminée, et en quelle saison
Reverrai-je le clos de ma pauvre maison,
Qui m’est une province, et beaucoup davantage ?
Plus me plaît le séjour qu’ont bâti mes aïeux,
Que des palais Romains le front audacieux,
Plus que le marbre dur me plaît l’ardoise fine :
Plus mon Loir gaulois, que le Tibre latin,
Plus mon petit Liré, que le mont Palatin,
Et plus que l’air marin la doulceur angevine.
Happy is he, who like Ulysses has traveled far,
Or like he who sought out the Golden Fleece,
And then returned, full of experience and knowledge,
To dwell amongst his own for the rest of his days.
Alas! When shall I see again, in my small village
The smoking of the chimney, and in what season
Shall I see the enclosure of my humble abode,
That is to me a province, and so much more?
Far happier am I with the dwelling that my forefathers built,
Than with Roman palaces with bold façades,
Just like hard marble pleases me more than fine slate:
Like my Gaulish Loir compared to the Roman Tiber,
My little Liré in comparison with Palatine Hill,
And Angevin sweetness to the air from the sea.
