To Hélène

When you are very old, by candle’s flame,
Spinning beside the fire, at the end of day,
Singing my verse, admiring, you will say:
“When I was fair, Ronsard’s muse I become."

Your servant then, some weary old beldame-
Whoever she may be- nodding away,
Hearing “Ronsard.” Will shake off sleep, and pray
Your name will be blessed, to live in deathless fame.

Buried, I shall a fleshless phantom be,
Hovering by the shadowed myrtle tree;
You, by the hearth, a pining crone, bent low,

Whose pride once scorned my love, much to you sorrow.
Heed me, live for today, wait not the morrow:
Gather life’s roses while still fresh they grow.