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