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