Is father’s eyesight growing dim, his form a little lower?
Is mother’s hair a little gray, her step a little slower?
Is life’s hill growing hard to climb? Make not their pathway steeper,
Smooth out the furrows on their brow, Oh, do not make them deeper.

There’s nothing makes a face so young, as joy, youth’s fairest token,
And nothing makes a face grow old, like hearts that have been broken.
Take heed lest deed of thine should make thy mother be a weeper,
Stamp peace upon a father’s brow, don’t make the wrinkles deeper.

In doubtful pathways do not go, be tempted not to wander;
Grieve not the hearts that love you so, but make their love grow fonder.
Much have thy parents borne for thee, be now their tender keeper,
And  let them lean upon thy love; don’t make the wrinkles deeper.

Be lavish with the kindly deeds, be patient, true and tender;
And make the path that ageward leads, aglow with earthly splendor.
Some day, the dear ones, stricken low, must yield to death the reaper,
And you will then be glad to know you made no wrinkles deeper.

Author Unknown