when you are old and gray 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 piligrim 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 his face amid a crowd of stars