'The Wild Swans' is a fine poem, but - soppy romantic that I am - I rather prefer this:
When You Are Old
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.
W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)
I adore that last line - that's always how I feel, what I think of, after being rejected by a woman!
There's an interesting comparison to be made with this much harsher (more realistic?) piece by the great Tom Lehrer:
When You Are Old And Gray
Since I still appreciate you
Let's find love while we may
Because I know I'll hate you
When you are old and gray
So say you love me here and now
I'll make the most of that
Say you love and trust me
For I know you'll disgust me
When you're old and getting fat
An awful debility, a lessened utility
A loss of mobility is a strong possibility
In all probability I'll lose my virility
And you your fertility and desirability
And this liability of total sterility
Will lead to hostility and a sense of futility
So let's act with agility while we still have facility
For we'll soon reach senility and lose the ability
Your teeth will start to go, dear
Your waist will start to spread
In twenty years or so, dear
I'll wish that you were dead
I'll never love you then at all
The way I do today
So please remember
When I leave in December
I told you so in May
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4 comments:
Did you know that Yeates and Crowley were both members of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn?? I find it facinating that a man of Crowley's craziness traveled in the circles he did.
Amazing, the erudition (and the trivia-retention capabilities) of my readers!
But how do you come to know about Aleister Crowley?? That's almost more scary than the comments Mike "The Poisoner" was making the other day!
I am chalk full of frivolous information.
I actually found it out from Niels, who recently read Crowley's biography. He, Crowley not Niels, was aquaintances with a lot of pretty important people, which I found quite surprising.
The chestnut casts his flambeaux, and the flowers
Stream from the hawthorn on the wind away,
The doors clap to, the pane is blind with showers.
Pass me the can, lad; there's an end of May.
There's one spoilt spring to scant our mortal lot,
One season ruined of our little store.
May will be fine next year as like as not:
Oh ay, but then we shall be twenty-four.
We for a certainty are not the first
Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled
Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed
Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.
It is in truth iniquity on high
To cheat our sentenced souls of aught they crave,
And mar the merriment as you and I
Fare on our long fool's-errand to the grave.
Iniquity it is; but pass the can.
My lad, no pair of kings our mothers bore;
Our only portion is the estate of man:
We want the moon, but we shall get no more.
If here to-day the cloud of thunder lours
To-morrow it will hie on far behests;
The flesh will grieve on other bones than ours
Soon, and the soul will mourn in other breasts.
The troubles of our proud and angry dust
Are from eternity, and shall not fail.
Bear them we can, and if we can we must.
Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.
(a e houseman)
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