When You Are Old
By W.B.Yeats
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.
Love at First Sight
By Wislawa Szymborska
They’re both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful.
Since they’re never met before, they’re sure
that there’d been nothing between them.
But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways- perhaps they’ve passed by each other a million times?
I want to ask them
if they don’t remember-
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd?
a cut “wrong number” caught in the receiver?
but I know the answer
No, they don’t remember.
They’d be amazed to hear
that chance has been toying with them
now for years.
Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart, it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.
There were signs and signals,
even if they couldn’t read them yet. Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished into childhood’s thicket?
There were doorknobs and doorbells where one touch had covered another beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side. One night, perhaps, the same dream, grown hazy by morning.
Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.
(translated by Stanislaw Baranczak &Clare Cavanagh)
When You Are Old
By W.B.Yeats
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.
Love at First Sight
By Wislawa Szymborska
They’re both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful.
Since they’re never met before, they’re sure
that there’d been nothing between them.
But what’s the word from the streets, staircases, hallways- perhaps they’ve passed by each other a million times?
I want to ask them
if they don’t remember-
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a “sorry” muttered in a crowd?
a cut “wrong number” caught in the receiver?
but I know the answer
No, they don’t remember.
They’d be amazed to hear
that chance has been toying with them
now for years.
Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart, it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.
There were signs and signals,
even if they couldn’t read them yet. Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished into childhood’s thicket?
There were doorknobs and doorbells where one touch had covered another beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side. One night, perhaps, the same dream, grown hazy by morning.
Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.
(translated by Stanislaw Baranczak &Clare Cavanagh)