When we are old and these rejoicing veins <br />Are frosty channels to a muted stream, <br />And out of all our burning their remains <br />No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream, <br />This be our solace: that it was not said <br />When we were young and warm and in our prime, <br />Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead, <br />Sleeping away the unreturning time. <br />O sweet, O heavy-lidded, O my love, <br />When morning strikes her spear upon the land, <br />And we must rise and arm us and reprove <br />The insolent daylight with a steady hand, <br />Be not discountenanced if the knowing know <br />We rose from rapture but an hour ago.<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-we-are-old-and-these-rejoicing-veins/
