I’ve recently been pondering some lines by W.B. Yeats:
An aged man is but a paltry thing, A tattered coat upon a stick, unless Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing For every tatter in its mortal dress.
Right up to the end we must keep singing.
Soul-song,
Sing Thou, Beloved Soul in me,
that every tattered being
sharing this life,
that all may catch the
rhythm and the tune
of Trust, of Love
and sing, and louder sing
Thy song.
As his Year’s Mind approaches, a thanksgiving for James, and all those who have blessed our pilgrimages, sung and louder sung, Love’s song. Beloved Soul, sing on with us.