When you are old, and those who hail you now A thing of promise, richer every year, Shall trace a deeper glory on your brow In that it shall be lordly and austere; I shall recall, with heart bereft and stung -- The while my dazed eyes pitifully stare -- The strong turn of your wrist when you were young, The brown curve of your throat when you were fair. Although upon that day you will assume Proportions more authentic and august Than now are yours, I shall but know the doom Of young limbs withered and of beauty gone -- Oh, rather that we lay already prone, Foregtful even of our mutual dust. |