When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read…

…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.

— W.B. Yeats, from poem When You Are Old