I have always loved Yeats, but I could never quite understand why "The Tower" was supposed to be his masterpiece. It seemed whiney and muddled. Now, finally, I've grown into it. When you reach your mid fifties whiney and muddled is exactly what you are. The body is getting to be a nuisance, you've got your best years behind you and all you really want to do is settle down in front of the TV with a nice cup of something hot. In order to keep on functioning as a proper human being you have to be continually kicking yourself in the shins.
"What shall I do with this absurdity-
O heart, O troubled heart- this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?"