WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep |
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And nodding by the fire, take down this book, |
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And slowly read, and dream of the soft look |
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Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; |
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How many loved your moments of glad grace, | |
And loved your beauty with love false or true; |
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But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, |
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And loved the sorrows of your changing face. |
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And bending down beside the glowing bars, |
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Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled | |
And paced upon the mountains overhead, |
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And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
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