|Side street in Santiago|
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 lookYour 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 fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
-When You Are Old, by William Butler Yeats
When I first read this poem, sometime last month, my heart kinda did a deep swoon. I don't know what it is about this poem (well, I guess I partially do) - it just kills me in the best possible way that poetry can.
Mr. Yeats - I tip my imaginary hat to you, good sir.
(April is National Poetry Month)