In response to my birthday post, below, my friend Erik suggests that some folks missed my birthday because I affect an aspect of timelessness. Perhaps so, as with the Sybil in the jar in the marketplace at Cumae. But I’m tired.

I grow old … I grow old …

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

So the old dog and I shall limp and toddle off to bed, leaving you all, gentle readers, with a bit of Yeats.

When You Are Old

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.