The Ronsard poem:
ROSES
RONSARD, 1550.
I send you here a wreath of blossoms blown,
And woven flowers at sunset gathered,
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,
Flowerlike, 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.
The death of Renee’ Michel does seem an easy out, as though the author did not quite know how to continue satisfactorily with the progress of her story or bring it to a realistic conclusion. Or perhaps she just felt that to leave with wounds healed, at a time of happiness and contentment, is better than to go on with life and it’s inevitable troubles to come. If life has it’s valleys and mountain peaks, is it better to stop on the mountain?