Ronsard and rain

Pour obsèques reçois mes larmes et mes pleurs,
Ce vase plein de lait, ce panier plein de fleurs,
Afin que vif, et mort, ton corps ne soit que roses.

Yesterday my host mom took me and another student living in the house to the home of the 16th century poet Ronsard, "the prince of poets, the poet of princes" (or vice versa). None of us knew until we arrived that it was his birthday. It was also good timing with regards to the weather. It had been raining hard all day (I got drenched running back from church), but when we arrived, the sun broke out. I remember from England how amazing it is when the rain stops and the sun shines on all the glistening leaves and grass. In England, this would have lasted fifteen minutes. Here, it lasted the whole time we spent at the old house, the ruins of the church next door, and the ruins of even older chapels. It was pretty to see the garden full of roses, with bits of Ronsard's poetry on signs throughout. He wrote a lot about roses and young women whose love he couldn't share. I remember learning about him last fall, and he was introduced with a quotation from a critique who wondered why a poet who only wrote about girls and flowers would be considered one of the nation's best poets - and not just any nation, but France, a country whose lasting contributions to the world have been mostly literary. I kind of agree, but it was nice to see the home of a poet I had studied, on his birthday, and to know that he was a Tourangeau!

Speaking of girls and flowers, I saw a very sad, very confusing, mildly entertaining, musical movie today at the movie theatre. Another Bucknell friend and I concluded afterwards that French films are unnecessarily awkward and that they have no plot, maybe kind of like life, but not a life anyone would desire. We couldn't talk for long because the rain began to pour. "A demain!" I shouted as I ran up the cobble-stone street to my house. Luckily I live right around the corner.