Pierre Ronsard
I send you here a wreath of blossoms blown,
And woven flowers at sunset gathered.
Another dawn had seen them revived; ruined,
and shed loose leaves upon the grass, at random strewn.
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 flowers 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, whilst thou art fair.
