When you are old and grey 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;
Now the days grow short,
I'm in the autumn of my years.
I think of my life as vintage wine
From fine old kegs
From the brim to the dregs.
And it poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year.
A member of the Sunday in my City community.