so, i have a book of yeats by my bed, and on the rare occasions that i have had just one too many glasses o vino, i tend to pick it up and read it. sometimes aloud (before i get shushed), sometimes to myself. no matter how many poems i tipsily murmur my way through though, i always come back to this one. just because it is so, you know, bittersweet and sad and sweet and affecting and really hits home to my greatest (i suppose) fear: getting old. not so much in terms of looks or body or soul, but in having already experienced the majority of life’s drama–the good and the bad, and love— and just having primarily memories to cling to, as opposed to having life to look forward to.
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.