The Day After Tomorrow And Sunday
I panic too easily. Getting ideas logged in my brain till I begin to believe them as fact.
I tell myself multiple times that with all the packing and vet appointments and money and moving and unpacking and arranging and decorating and busy-ness and city life and excitement I will not have too much time to think about it.... But still sometimes I see a pathetic vision of myself bursting into tears in a lonely room. I will try real hard not to. After all, I am ecstatic. =D Getting confused is hard in the midst of ecstasy.
Either way, take this poem by Yeats. (Yes, I'm quoting Yeats. Now, don't you feel like you're friends with Sylvia Plath? Don't worry, no children or suicide in my future.) It's based off a sonnet of the same name by Pierre de Ronsard, but his is kinda hard to understand, so we're going with Yeats. It's called "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."
1) I hope this is not me.
2) ::sigh:: I wish I could write like that.
I tell myself multiple times that with all the packing and vet appointments and money and moving and unpacking and arranging and decorating and busy-ness and city life and excitement I will not have too much time to think about it.... But still sometimes I see a pathetic vision of myself bursting into tears in a lonely room. I will try real hard not to. After all, I am ecstatic. =D Getting confused is hard in the midst of ecstasy.
Either way, take this poem by Yeats. (Yes, I'm quoting Yeats. Now, don't you feel like you're friends with Sylvia Plath? Don't worry, no children or suicide in my future.) It's based off a sonnet of the same name by Pierre de Ronsard, but his is kinda hard to understand, so we're going with Yeats. It's called "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."
1) I hope this is not me.
2) ::sigh:: I wish I could write like that.
posted by Angela at 6:41 PM
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