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 sorrows 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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