Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE OLD WOMAN LAMENTS THE DAYS OF HER YOUTH, by FRANCOIS VILLON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE OLD WOMAN LAMENTS THE DAYS OF HER YOUTH, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: I seem to hear lamenting / the armoress who once was fair
Alternate Author Name(s): Montcorbier, Francois De
Subject(s): Beauty; Old Age; Women; Youth; Transcience




I seem to hear lamenting
The Armoress who once was fair,
Wishing she were a girl again
And speaking after this manner:
Ha! old age, villainous and fierce,
Why so soon have you laid me low?
If I strike myself, what shall hinder
My killing myself with such a blow?


You have taken the great dominion
That Beauty did ordain for me
Over scholars, merchants, churchmen,
For then no man born could be
Who wouldn't give everything to me -
Even if later he might regret -
If only I would yield him freely
What the beggars now reject.


Many a man I have refused -
Which wasn't behaving sensibly -
For the sake of a crafty lad I used
To give myself too generously.
Others I treated treacherously,
But loved him well, upon my soul!
But he only repaid abusively,
And loved me only for my gold.


However much he bullied me,
Trampled me, I loved him still;
And had he even crippled me,
He need only ask me for a kiss
To blot out all my ill.
The scoundrel, marked with evil stain,
Embraced me . . . hardly profitable!
For what is left? Sin and shame.


But he is dead these thirty years,
And old and gray-haired I remain.
When I think of the good years,
What I was, what I became!
When I look at my naked frame,
And see how much I have changed,
Wretched, wizened, shrunken, lean,
My mind is nearly deranged.
What has become of my smooth brow,


My blond hair, my eyebrows' span,
My well-spaced eyes, that glance now,
That used to trap the cleverest men?
My fine straight nose, then
Not big nor small, each dainty ear,
The clear, curved cheeks and dimpled chin,
And those red lips so fair?


Those shoulders, slender and fine,
Those long arms and shapely hands,
The tiny breasts, hips round and high,
Shaped perfectly - a land
Made for love's tournaments;
The wide loins; and pleasure's seat
Set in the firm thighs' extent,
Inside its little garden sweet?


The wrinkled brow, the hair turned gray,
Eyebrows fallen out, dimmed eyes
That once attacked with looks and gay
Smiles, winning many a merchant prize;
Nose bent, as beauty far off flies.
Ears drooping, full of hair,
Wan cheeks, dead and colorless,
Puckered chin, lips like leather.


This is human beauty's end!
The short arms, gnarled fists,
Shoulders quite humped and bent;
What of the breasts? mere shriveled tits;
Hips and dugs have called it quits;
And pleasure's seat? Ugh! And as
Fot thighs, they're no thighs now but bits
Of things, all flecked like sausages.


And so we lament the good old days
Among ourselves - poor old fools,
Squatting low here on our haunches,
Bunched up like woolen balls
Around a fire of hempen straw,
Quickly lit and quickly gone.
And once we were cute and fair!
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