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Nicholas Gordon
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Eighty-one feels sorry for himself. In constant pain, he often wonders why Gifts of time are never made to last. How bitter one might be! For pleasures past Trade for little when the price is high Years later, in the maelstrom of ill health. One can to such despair find no reply, Not being in such agony oneself, Except within one's love to bind him fast.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.
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