As in the gardens, all through May, the rose, <br />Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled, <br />Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, <br />When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows; <br />Graces and Loves within her breast repose, <br />The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed, <br />Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead <br />The languid flower, and the loose leaves unclose, - <br /> <br />So this, the perfect beauty of our days, <br />When earth and heaven were vocal of her praise, <br />The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes; <br />And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb <br />Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom, <br />That dead, as living, she may be with roses.<br /><br />Pierre de Ronsard<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ladys-tomb/
