When you are very old, at evening

You’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,

Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah well-a-day!

When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’

None of your maidens that doth hear the thing,

Albeit with her weary task foredone,

But wakens at my name, and calls you one

Blest, to be held in long remembering.

I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid

On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade,

While you beside the fire, a grandame grey,

My love, your pride, remember and regret;

Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet,

And gather roses, while ’tis called to-day.