'Quand vous serez bien vielle, le soir a la chandelle <br />Assise aupres du feu devisant et filant, <br />Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant, <br />Ronsard m'a celebre du temps que j'etois belle.' <br /> <br />Some winter night, shut snugly in <br />Beside the fagot in the hall, <br />I think I see you sit and spin, <br />Surrounded by your maidens all. <br />Old tales are told, old songs are sung, <br />Old days come back to memory; <br />You say, 'When I was fair and young, <br />A poet sang of me!' <br /> <br />There's not a maiden in your hall, <br />Though tired and sleepy ever so, <br />But wakes, as you my name recall, <br />And longs the history to know. <br />And, as the piteous tale is said, <br />Of lady cold and lover true, <br />Each, musing, carries it to bed, <br />And sighs and envies you! <br /> <br />'Our lady's old and feeble now,' <br />They'll say; 'she once was fresh and fair, <br />And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow, <br />And heartless left him to despair: <br />The lover lies in silent earth, <br />No kindly mate the lady cheers; <br />She sits beside a lonely hearth, <br />With threescore and ten years!' <br /> <br />Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those, <br />But wherefore yield me to despair, <br />While yet the poet's bosom glows, <br />While yet the dame is peerless fair! <br />Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time <br />Requite my passion and my truth, <br />And gather in their blushing prime <br />The roses of your youth!<br /><br />William Makepeace Thackeray<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ronsard-to-his-mistress/
