More than one lover, in the Bourgueil Park, More than one spirit, at the Louvre-side, Has carved more than one name into the bark, At the lightning of a smile has thrilled with pride. What matter? All their joy and grief have gone. They wholly lie beneath an oaken plank, And naught disputes the grave's oblivion With their inert dust where covering grass is rank. Everything dies. Marie, Helène, and you, Haughty Cassandra, were but ashes now— Roses and lilies have no remembered story— If Ronsard, under skies, on waters, of blue, Had not entwined immortally on your brow The myrtles of love and the laurels of glory. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOCTURNE IN A MINOR KEY by CONRAD AIKEN DINNER IN A QUICK LUNCH ROOM by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET |