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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem