On the Book of Loves of Pierre de Ronsard

In Bourgueil Gardens more than one of yore
Engraved upon the bark names fondly sweet,
And many a heart 'neath Louvre's gold ceilings beat,
At flash of smile, with pride which thrilled to soar.

What matters it?—their joy or grief is o'er;
They lie in stillness where four oak boards meet
Beneath the sighing grass, with none to greet
Their voiceless dust that feeds oblivion's shore.

All die. Mary, Helen, Cassandra bold,
Your lovely forms would be but ashes cold,
—Nor rose nor lily sees the morrow's land—

Had Ronsard by the Seine or Loire not wove
For brows of yours, with an immortal hand,
Fame's laurel leaf with myrtle leaf of Love.