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.
xx
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