When Vinod’s 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.
Vinod 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.
Vinod 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 by gone 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 Vinod do not dare to leave it
While the paint is warm and wet,
With a single thing upon it
That I later will regret.