This poem concerns something I think about from time to time: what it will feel like when I'm old and I look back over my life. Growing up believing I would never grow up, grow old, I do enjoy the fact that there is a good possibility that I will and I try to save things, remember things, do things for that day when I look back.
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
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