Oscar and Walt Totally Have A Thing

[masterofmidgets]

In a fit of "OMG I must do something besides sit around being a lazy bum!", I went to Wal-Mart thi afternoon to pick up some minor, non-essential things I needed that I couldn't get at Trader Joe's (including scrunchies, a tape measure, nail clippers, and blue duct tape). Well, that was a mistake. Normally when I go to Wal-Mart it's just to get one or two things, and I'm in and out in ten minutes, but this time...it took me awhile to find the things I wanted to get, long enough that my weird store allergies started to kick in majorly. I had to call hanjuuluver  to talk so just I would have something to think about besides how much I wanted to pass out/throw up. Not fun! But I survived, and I got my shopping done, and now I'm home and won't be going back for a good long while.

The only upside to the whole thing was a quite lovely conversation I had with telyanofcelore  on the bus on my way there. It was definitely one of those 'right, this is why I'm an English major, because I am ENORMOUS DORK' moments. It involved a theoretical AU about a celtic rock band composed entirely of Romantic poets - I believe this train of thought started because we agreed Tennyson would have been a much better lyricist than a poet. So he does that. Arthur Hallam, Tennyson's dead gay boyfriend, would be the lead singer. Byron is lead guitar, as if there were any question. Yeats is on bass guitar. Percy Shelley plays the drums, and he always brings his girlfriend Mary to the practices, which everyone bitches about until they find out that she's been secretly writing songs and then they are all impressed. Whitman writes all their music. Oscar Wilde is of course the scathing music critic. BEST AU EVER, Y/Y?

Because of that, today's poem is Yeats. Because Yeats is made of win!

When You Are Old   by WB Yeats

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.