When I am old, and think of the old days, <br />And warm my hands before a little blaze, <br />Having forgotten love, hope, fear, desire, <br />I shall see, smiling out of the pale fire, <br />One face, mysterious and exquisite; <br />And I shall gaze, and ponder over it, <br />Wondering, was it Leonardo wrought <br />That stealthy ardency, where passionate thought <br />Burns inward a revealing flame, and glows <br />To the last ecstasy, which is repose? <br />Was it Bronzino, those Borghese eyes? <br />And, musing thus among my memories, <br />O unforgotten! you will come to seem, <br />As pictures do, remembered, some odd dream. <br />And I shall think of you as something strange, <br />And beautiful, and full of helpless change, <br />Which I beheld and carried in my heart; <br />But you, I loved, will have become a part <br />Of the eternal mystery, and love <br />Like a dim pain; and I shall bend above <br />My little fire, and shiver, being cold, <br />When you are no more young, and I am old.<br /><br />Arthur Symons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-last-memory/
