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When I grow old and my quick blood is chilled, And all my thoughts are grey as my grey hair, When I am slow and dull, and do not care, And all the strife and storm of Life are stilled; Then if one carelessly should speak your name It will go through my body like swift spears To set my fireless bosom in a flame, My faded eyelids will be bright with tears; And I shall find how far my heart has gone From wanting you,—how lost and long ago That love of ours was: I shall suddenly know How old and grey I am . . . and how alone. |