AS WE GROW OLD

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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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