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When you are very old, by the heart’s glare,
At candle-time, spinning and winding thread,
You’ll sing my lines, and say, astonished:
Ronsard made these for me, when I was fair.
Then not a servant even, with toil and care
Almost out-worn, hearing what you have said,
Shall fail to start awake and lift her head
And bless your name with deathless praise fore’er.
My bones shall lie in earth, and my poor ghost
Take its long rest where Love’s dark myrtles thrive.
You, crouching by the firs, old, shrunken, grey,
Shall rue your proud disdain and my love lost…
Nay, hear me, love! Wait not to-morrow! Live.
And pluck life’s roses, oh! To-day, to-day.
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Instead of a rose I have two more polka stripe tulips to show you. I am still struggling with "new typepad", and these two photos refused to show up in my previous post.
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Poem by Pierre de Ronsard
