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The Picture

When my hair is thin and silvered, And my time of toil is through; When I've many years behind me, And ahead of me a few;

I shall want to sit, I reckon, Sort of dreaming in the sun; And recall the roads I've traveled And the many things I've done.

I hope there'll be no picture That I'll hate to look upon; When the time to paint it better Or to wipe it out, is gone.

I hope there'll be no vision Of a hasty word I've said That has left a trail of sorrow, Like a whip welt sore and red.

And I hope my old age dreaming Will bring back no bitter scene Of a time when I was selfish, Or a time when I was mean.

When I'm getting old and feeble, And I'm far along life's way, I don't want to sit regretting Any bygone yesterday.

I am painting now the picture That I'll want someday to see; I am filling in a canvas That will soon come back to me.

Though nothing great is on it, And though nothing there is fine, I shall want to look it over When I'm old, and call it mine.

So I do not dare to leave it While the paint is warm and wet, With a single thing upon it That I later will regret.

~ Author Unknown ~