quinta-feira, dezembro 29, 2011

The song of the old mother

I rise in the dawn, and I kneel and blow
Till the seed of the fire flicker and glow;
And then I must scrub and bake and sweep
Till stars are beginning to blink and peep;
And the young lie long and dream in their bed
Of the matching of ribbons for bosom and head,
And their days go over in idleness,
And they sigh if the wind but lift a tress:
While I must work because I am old,
And the seed of the fire gets feeble and cold

William Butler Yeats

Tanto tempo mais tarde, o Neil Hannon quase quase voltou a fazer uma canção sobre isto.
Sobretudo nestas últimas semanas, my most warm thoughts for both of them equal.

Sem comentários: