Loosely Translated From A French Poem By Pierre Ronsard (1524-1585)
When you grow old at evening, you'll spin beside the fire,
In candlelight you'll marvel at memories of days gone by,
Singing my songs, you'll say, 'He loved me dear when I was young,' and sigh,
But soon enough, labouring at the wheel, you'll tire.
Those servants with you at the time will hear of my demise,
But they'll know naught about our past and care not for my fame,
Lavishing immortal praise on you, they'll fervently bless your name,
And for my sake alone, they will not make you rise.
Sitting by the fire, you'll be but an old woman with no zest,
While I, ghost without bone, below the Earth shall be lain,
You'll regret the loss of my love and your proud disdain,
Alas! By then, beneath the myrtle's shade I will be at rest.
So live as though you believe in me,
Without waiting for tomorrow,
Gather the roses of life from today,
Before there's cause to sorrow.
Ronsard's original:
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.
Lors, vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.
Je serai sous la terre et fantôme sans os :
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos :
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain :
Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.
— Sonnets pour Hélène, 1587
And, of course, Yeats' fantastic version of it:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
When you grow old at evening, you'll spin beside the fire,
In candlelight you'll marvel at memories of days gone by,
Singing my songs, you'll say, 'He loved me dear when I was young,' and sigh,
But soon enough, labouring at the wheel, you'll tire.
Those servants with you at the time will hear of my demise,
But they'll know naught about our past and care not for my fame,
Lavishing immortal praise on you, they'll fervently bless your name,
And for my sake alone, they will not make you rise.
Sitting by the fire, you'll be but an old woman with no zest,
While I, ghost without bone, below the Earth shall be lain,
You'll regret the loss of my love and your proud disdain,
Alas! By then, beneath the myrtle's shade I will be at rest.
So live as though you believe in me,
Without waiting for tomorrow,
Gather the roses of life from today,
Before there's cause to sorrow.
Ronsard's original:
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.
Lors, vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,
Déjà sous le labeur à demi sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille réveillant,
Bénissant votre nom de louange immortelle.
Je serai sous la terre et fantôme sans os :
Par les ombres myrteux je prendrai mon repos :
Vous serez au foyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et votre fier dédain.
Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain :
Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.
— Sonnets pour Hélène, 1587
And, of course, Yeats' fantastic version of it:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.