Let you not say of me when I am old, <br />In pretty worship of my withered hands <br />Forgetting who I am, and how the sands <br />Of such a life as mine run red and gold <br />Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, <br />Here walketh passionless age!"—for there expands <br />A curious superstition in these lands, <br />And by its leave some weightless tales are told. <br /> <br />In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; <br />I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; <br />Impious no less in ruin than in strength, <br />When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, <br />Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site <br />The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer."<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnets-09-let-you-not-say-of-me-when-i-am-old/
