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 maidens¹ that doth hear the thing, Albeit² 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 phantom³ 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.