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;
Recalling 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.
Written By Edwin W. Truesdell
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