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  • sonnet __

    7 Dec 2002

    When we are old and these rejoicing veins
    Are frosty channels to a muted stream,
    And out of all our burning there remains
    No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream
    This be our solace: that it was not said
    When we were young and warm and in our prime
    Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead
    Sleeping away the unreturning time

    if you know the author, the title, or any other information on this one, please mail me, i'd love to know