A shop keeper in Donegal turned me on to Yeats (and wool),
and some time later, I copied down this verse
so as to lure a lover back to me
whose passion I mistook for
I’d found a four-leaf clover on the day that I told him I had to go.
“You’ll miss my graduation,” he said, after I extended my time abroad.
I suppose he never forgave me those months;
even with all the letters I sent,
even after I came home with Aran sweaters.
But this poem and I remained forever close.
Though it’s only now
“old and grey” myself,
though not quite “nodding by the fire,”
that I realize that I was the “pilgrim soul”
to whom I’d meant to pledge my heart.
When You Are Old