When I am sixty will my wife ride a bike
to the shops and back in summertime?
And in her basket will she carry a clock,
will she style her hair short and straight,
short and straight and ivory grey?
And of a Sunday will she read a book?
And if I arrange a dinner for eight
will she get there on time, or will she be late?
And will she keep her temperament fine
and love with ease in the summer time?
And will she be gentle and will she be mild,
carrying her grace as if a child?
When I am sixty will I have grown short?
And will I still make a witty retort?
And will I dare to eat a peach, and see the mermaids
singing each to each? And will I part my hair?
And will I snarl with a vicious snare? Or will Prufrock
be a milder fellow - I have known love,
bathed in meadows. Trod
in the black maze of shadows.
I have kissed lips - sour and full.
I have lived and danced, and I have found
that life's a thing to be worn - a gown.
And I have seen the mermaids, singing
each to each - till my darling's voice wakes me....
When I'm sixty, in love will I drown?