Menu
Tuesday, May 27, 2014

Eighty

These useless hands
That once could sharply fret
And stretch and bend and hammer on
And play all round the note,
Now barely hold a pencil

Yet the heart,
Which true, can’t run a mile
Will flutter at a woman’s smile
And feel a rhyme
And dance in time
To music.

But no one sees.

They only see these useless hands
That struggle with a pencil.
Patrick Ladbrooke
Topic(s) of this poem: growing old
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
COMMENTS
Paul Reed 27 May 2014
Great poem Patrick. Your hands and heart still intact.
0 0 Reply

Delivering Poems Around The World

Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...

1/23/2021 12:38:57 PM # 1.0.0.425