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 have traveled
and the many things I've done.

   I hope there'll be no picture that
I will 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 will want someday to see;

 I am filling in a canvas that
will soon come back to me.