“What is Poetry?”

Your inquisitive Chinese eyes looked into mine and asked, “What is poetry?”

I searched for words to bridge the chasm between my heart language
and yours
and found instead an old friend,
Yeats.

“What is poetry?” you asked,
so I turned to page ten
and began to read…

 

 

WHEN you are old and gray 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 among a crowd of stars.
(“When You are Old”, by William Butler Yeats)