In Bourgueil Gardens more than one of yore <br />Engraved loved names on bark with heavy stroke, <br />And many a heart 'neath Louvre's gold ceilings shook, <br />At flash of smile, with pride to very core. <br /> <br />What matters it? - their joy or grief e'ermore <br />Is stilled: they lie between four boards of oak, <br />Where under grass-grown cover nought has woke <br />Their torpid dust that feeds oblivion's shore. <br /> <br />All die. Mary, Helen, and thee, Cassandra, all <br />Your lovely forms to lifeless ashes fall, <br />- Nor rose nor lily sees the morrow's land - <br /> <br />Still, Ronsard by the Seine and Loire has wove <br />For brows of ours, with an immortal hand, <br />Fame's laurel leaf with myrtle leaf of Love.<br /><br />Jose Maria de Heredia<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-the-book-of-loves-of-pierre-de-ronsard/
