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