When You are Old

by W. B. Yeats

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.

This poem made me cry today, which, according to my poetry teacher, is exactly what it is supposed to do. Reading poetry is supposed to be emotional, you are supposed to love it, to be passionate about it. I don't know about all of that, but I have developed a strange affection for poetry as of late. I must be getting soft in my old age. Getting old is strange. I wonder what I will miss most. I wonder which memories will be my fondest. I wonder who I will miss the most, and which places will stand out most in my mind.

What do you say when someone tells you they want to be a messiah?

I'm sick of delusions of grandeur and an egocentric view of the universe. I'm sick of self-important musings. I'm sick of your affectations.

I want to lay in the grass and feel the warmth of the sun on my face. I want to think about how amazing everything is, I want to consider the miracle of a blade of grass. I want to take deep breaths and experience every smell, every taste, every sight, every second. I never want to stop learning.

I never want to be as conceited as you are.