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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