When You are Old

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

W.B Yeats

i miss reading poetry. i just thought of this poem i like today and decided to re-read it. somehow i always associate wb yeats with seamus heaney. i don't know why. re-reading poems is always such an emotional thing because you can keep re-reading poems and everytime you feel all over again. now i feel sad, but it's a nice, reflective sort of sad. poignant is the word, but i feel i use that word almost too much.

friggy left us with his final homily today. it was a rather touching affair, and i will indeed miss him very much, as i've missed all the other priests that've left. but life goes on, and nothing will ever really be forgotten unless you choose to forget. i know it sounds almost calculative and dissective to say this, but human connection and communication is just such a beautiful thing. what makes us feel this pang of wistfulness after someone goes away? what's the scientific reason for it? i don't think it'll ever be explained, and that's the beauty of human emotion - the inexplicable nature of it, the natural capacity to feel attached to something or someone.

i just feel so full of this yearning, this inexplicable yearning. i don't know what it is.

+ posted by M @ 10:28 PM