When you're old and gray and sleepy,

　　And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

　　Read slowly, recall the soft look in your eyes,

　　Think of their dark shadows;

　　How many loved your moments of joy,

　　Love your beauty, fake or true,

　　There's only one man who loves your pilgrim soul,

　　Love the bitter wrinkles of your aging face;

　　Leaning down beside the red glowing stove,

　　Whisper sadly the death of love,

　　On the hills overhead he paced slowly,

　　Hid his face among a crowd of stars