when “pop” is bald, and my hair is white,

and the stage is set, for a long twilight;

when we are alone in our little den

he with his pipe and i with my pen,

’twill not be regrets that make us sigh

for we will have things that the world can’t buy.

for we have snatched from the mirth mad throng

a little of love and a deathless song.

a few glad dreams and our tho’ts all white,

the silence of god, in the long twilight.

when “pop” is bald and my hair is white,

and we’re nearing the end of the long twilight,

’twill not seem cold in the darksome wood

for we have been friends with solitude.

and often yearned in the shadows cold

for the friendly smiles the gods withold.

hearts all the braver for the feel of pain,

for a rose grows sweeter every time it rains.{32}

a few glad notes from a comrade’s song

we’ll sing in the night as we go along.

for we carry the blossoms a frost ne’er blights

and we’ll have no morning till we’ve said goodnight.