WHEN YOU ARE OLD
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hen 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 lookYour eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace,And loved your beauty will 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 barsMurmur, a little sadly, how love fledAnd paced upon the mountains overheadAnd hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
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