Home  »  library  »  poem  »  Roses

C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.


By Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)

Translation of Andrew Lang

I SEND you here a wreath of blossoms blown,

And woven flowers at sunset gatherèd.

Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed

Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown.

By this, their sure example, be it known

That all your beauties, now in perfect flower,

Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour,

Flower-like, and brief of days, as the flower sown.

Ah, time is flying, lady—time is flying;

Nay, ’tis not time that flies but we that go,

Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying,

And of our loving parley none shall know,

Nor any man consider what we were:

Be therefore kind, my love, whiles thou art fair.