When you are old and grey and full of sleep

and nooding 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 monments 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 beding down beside the glowing bars,

murmur, a little sadly, how love fied
and paced upon the mountains overhead

and hid his face amid a crowd of stars.