William Butler Yeats
When you are old and gray 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.
I don't have much to say about this poem as it seems to speak for itself. I'm surprised I've never come across it before, but it appeared in my inbox as part of today's Writer's Almanac message (visit their site to sign up for daily poems). It's sad. While I actively try to avoid anything that could force me to confront sadness, this one seemed worth contemplating and sharing.
