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sublime as poetry
 
"I miss Ronnie a lot, an awful lot. 
People say it gets better. No, it does not.... 
It sounds strange, but ... I see Ronnie. 
At nighttime, if I wake up, I think Ronnie’s there, 
and I start to talk to him.
It’s not important what I say. 
But the fact is, I do think he's there. 
And I see him."
 
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ynews/20090602/pl_ynews/ynews_pl369
 
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. 
  
W.B. Yeats, When You Are Old 
  
Poetry is not just there in books -- it spills over life. 
  
CR