When you are old, at evening candlelit, Beside the fire bending to your wool, Read out my verse and murmur, "Ronsard writ This praise for me when I was beautiful.

My guitar, I sing of thee 'Tis with thee that I decoy And ensnare enchantingly the ladies I enjoy.

Thousands and thousands of colors paint the bosom of the earth so gaily.

When you are old, at evening candlelit, Beside the fire bending to your wool, Read out my verse and murmur, "Ronsard writ This praise for me when I was beautiful.

Gather, gather your youth: Just like this flower, old age Your beauty will wither.

When you are very old, and sit in the candle - light at evening spinning by the fire, you will say, as you murmur my verses, a wonder in your eyes, 'Ronsard sang of me in the days when I was fair.

Gather the roses of life today.