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“Alas! what profit now to tell
The long unweary lives of men
Of past days—threescore years and ten,
Unbent, unwrinkled, beautiful,
Regarding not death's flower-crowned skull,
But with some damsel intertwined
In such love as leaves hope behind.
“Alas, the vanished days of bliss!
Will no God send some dream of this,
That we may know what it has been?