So he says, “Do you read Yeats?”

I say, “Sure.”

He says, “Are you familiar with the poem ‘For Anne Gregory’ which is about the down side of being a blond?”

I say, “No. No I am not familiar with that.”

He says, “Would you like to hear it?”

Now, at this point in my life, there is only one other person who has ever recited a poem for me, someone I hold very dear, and it was also Yeats, and this one other person is about 50 years younger than the fellow sitting at the table next to me at the Comfort Diner today, and in fact I had just days prior discussed Yeats with this other much younger reciter, though the recitation itself was years ago. It should also be mentioned that our involvement with the table next to us was entirely predicated on the appeal of Nita’s stripy socks, and that we had skipped directly from socks to Yeats without actually introducing ourselves.

I say, “Yes!”

And here I have to lean in a bit, because this fellow is 80 and hard of hearing & the diner is very, very noisy.

And so:

FOR ANNE GREGORY
(author W.B. Yeats, as recited by Mr. Bill at Comfort Diner on 23rd Street around 1:30pm this afternoon, and which recitation involves, by necessity, a leaning in toward each other of both the reciter and the listener, and, not by necessity, upon the fourth line, said reciter reaching across to touch a lock of said listener’s admittedly blond hair, for emphasis of course.)

‘Never shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.’

‘But I can get hair-dye
And set such colour there,
Brown, or black, or carrot,
That young men in despair
May love me for myself alone
And not my yellow hair.’

‘I heard an old religious man
But yesternight declare
That he had found a text to prove
That only God, my dear,
Could love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair.’

Oh, Mr. Bill. You smooth talker, you. Your wife’s a lucky gal indeed.