Tempora labuntur tacitisque senescimus annis. "Time glides along and we grow old By process of the silent years," More fain the busy hands to fold, More quiet when a tale is told Where death appears. It is not that the feet would shrink From that dark river, lapping, cold, And hid with mists from brink to brink; Only one likes to sit and think, As one grows old.
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