When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


To the one who took me east and away: you know who you are. To the one who calculated gas mileage and sea rifts and city buses and cigar lustre. (We will wander and walk, you and I) To the ornament giver, poet, peace-maker, piece-gluer, and to the most beautiful voice I have ever heard. (My whiskey, from time to time) To the hand-holder, tender-hearted, the idealist who cares for everything, intensely. I will only let you love loneliness so much. (Thank you for years) For toussaint, for the words you've written. (Life, after all, smells of lilacs and brine)