For all that come into my mind are dead.

[~¤Akash¤~]

Always we'd have the new friend meet the old
And we are hurt if either friend seem cold,
And there is salt to lengthen out the smart
In the affections of our heart,
And quatrels are blown up upon that head;
But not a friend that I would bring
This night can set us quarrelling,
For all that come into my mind are dead.









William Butler Yeats

 

[bhandohal]

nyc one