In the UK and Ireland, it's the 10th celebration of World Book Day.
To honour our friends across the pond, I am carrying Iain Banks' The Wasp Factory to the launderette and will read it proudly whilst I wait for the spin cycle to complete. Since I am only 20 pages from the end, I will put a copy of Ian McEwan's Amsterdam
in the bag with the washing powder to ensure I have something to read as my knickers dry.
I must ready to depart, so I leave you with this most excellent poem.
When You Are Old
by W.B. Yeats
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 amid a crowd of stars.