Come, let me sing into your ear; <br />Those dancing days are gone, <br />All that silk and satin gear; <br />Crouch upon a stone, <br />Wrapping that foul body up <br />In as foul a rag: <br />I carry the sun in a golden cup. <br />The moon in a silver bag. <br /> <br />Curse as you may I sing it through; <br />What matter if the knave <br />That the most could pleasure you, <br />The children that he gave, <br />Are somewhere sleeping like a top <br />Under a marble flag? <br />I carry the sun in a golden cup. <br />The moon in a silver bag. <br /> <br />I thought it out this very day. <br />Noon upon the clock, <br />A man may put pretence away <br />Who leans upon a stick, <br />May sing, and sing until he drop, <br />Whether to maid or hag: <br />I carry the sun in a golden cup, <br />The moon in a silver bag.<br /><br />William Butler Yeats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/those-dancing-days-are-gone/
