Hélène

When you're grown old and sit before the fire at night,Devising, as you spin by candle-shine, you'll singThe rhymes I made of old and "Ronsard", marvelling.You'll say, "my praises sang, when I was sweet of sight."No maid of yours, that hears such tidings, but forthright,Though half with labour drowsed and wearied, at the ringShall waken of my name and join in hallowingYour name, by that my praise with deathless glory dight.I shall be underground; my ghost, no more opprestBy flesh and blood, among the myrtled shades will restAnd you before the hearth will be a bowed old wife,Regretful for my love and your disdainful pride.Live, then, believe me, live; nor till to-morrow bide;But gather in to-day the roses of this life.