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
Since I'm in a poetry phase recently, and in a bored and listless state of mind, I do what I love doing best - think up gifts, not to anyone in particular.
This idea came to mind - a diary. One that is filled, with pictures, texts, blog posts... whatever, tracing the life and times of a particular loved one. And this Yeats poem will preface the book.
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