A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Yeah, that's what I think too- only Yeats took it too far with that monkey gland treatment which turned him into a randy old muppet and probably killed him early. There's an art to growing old. You gotta let go, but not so your brain starts turning to porridge. Listen, the world belongs to the young and anyone over a certain age ought to get out of the road and go sit under a bo-tree- but not so far out of the way as to be out of sight and hailing distance of passing traffic. There's this wisdom thing, see, and this death's head thing; both of which the old should cultivate and present to the young with a teasing smile so the young know they've got it coming.