When you are old, and grey
and full of sleep, and
nodding by the fire,
Take down this book
and slowly read, and dream
of the soft look your eyes had once;
And of their shadows
deep; how many loved your
moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty
with love false or true;
But one man loved the
pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sarrows
of your changing face.
And bending down
beside the glowing bars,
Murmur a little sadly,
How love fled, and paced
upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
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