WHEN you are very old, by the hearth'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 fire, 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. |