THE moments passed as at a play; <br />I had the wisdom love brings forth; <br />I had my share of mother-wit, <br />And yet for all that I could say, <br />And though I had her praise for it, <br />A cloud blown from the cut-throat North <br />Suddenly hid Love's moon away. <br />Believing every word I said, <br />I praised her body and her mind <br />Till pride had made her eyes grow bright, <br />And pleasure made her cheeks grow red, <br />And vanity her footfall light, <br />Yet we, for all that praise, could find <br />Nothing but darkness overhead. <br />We sat as silent as a stone, <br />We knew, though she'd not said a word, <br />That even the best of love must die, <br />And had been savagely undone <br />Were it not that Love upon the cry <br />Of a most ridiculous little bird <br />Tore from the clouds his marvellous moon. <br />ALTHOUGH crowds gathered once if she but showed her face, <br />And even old men's eyes grew dim, this hand alone, <br />Like some last courtier at a gypsy camping-place <br />Babbling of fallen majesty, records what's gone. <br />These lineaments, a heart that laughter has made sweet, <br />These, these remain, but I record what-s gone. A crowd <br />Will gather, and not know it walks the very street <br />Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-memory-of-youth/
