Tuesday, April 9, 2013

Poetry: When We Are Old and These Rejoicing Veins

When we are old and these rejoicing veins
Are frosty channels to a muted stream,
And out of all our burning there remains
No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream,
This be our solace: that it was not said
When we were young and warm and in our prime,
Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead,
Sleeping away the unreturning time.
O sweet, O heavy-lidded, O my love,
When morning strikes her spear upon the land,
And we must rise and arm us and reprove
The insolent daylight with a steady hand,
Be not discountenanced if the knowing know
We rose from rapture but an hour ago. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay


troutbirder said...

Yes. Indeed. And I do remember books and plots, story lines and details of most of the good books I've read.... but most often forget titles and authors. I remember this author though wrote a poem called The Plaid Dress though I can't, no perhaps better, shouldn't remember why these many years ago...

Bekkieann said...

I know what you mean. I'm just glad I had fun while I was young. Fun has a whole different definition now.