When you are very old, some eve, at candle-time,
By fireside seated, spinning the light away,
Then you will croon my lines, and musing say,
"Ronsard did sing my long-forgotten prime."
Your very maid with memory will chime,
For though half-drowsing at her task she stay,
Yet Ronsard's name shall bring to her his lay,
Gracing your name with his immortal rhyme.
I shall be underground, a voiceless wraith,
Beneath the laurel shades, mute then in death;
And you, so crouching by the dying fire,
You will regret my love, and your disdain.
Ah, love me now, nor till the morn remain!
Enjoy to-day love's roses of desire!