  When you're very old, when in the candlelight your hair Silver shews—when by the fire you spinning sit and weaving, You will croon my verses, but in wonder, scarce believing 'Ronsard hymned my beauty in the days when I was fair.' Never servant could you have, tho' half-asleep she were, But would rouse herself to listen to your lyric grieving, Wake to hear my name and your glory, my achieving, My immortal praise of your beauty past compare. I shall be beneath the earth, an unsubstantial shade; Where the myrtles throw their shadow will my bones be laid. You will be a squatting crony sighing by the fire, Sighing for the love you scorned, recalling it with sorrow. Live, O live and love to-day; delay not till the morrow: Gather now the roses of youth and desire. From the French of Ronsard |
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