When You Are Old

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.

William Butler Yeats wrote that. I thought it pretty and wanted it on my site.

Life is mostly work, so life is busy and not worth writing much about. The weather in the hills is strange—lots of avalanches and wind so strong it stops gondolas and people get stranded on top of ski areas. We’re going up in a couple weekends. Pacing upon the mountains overhead sounds nice; I’ll try not to hide my face amid those stars though.

02/27/2006 | life | Comments

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