So much must I forego that once did make
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A keen and racing music in my blood:
No more at founts of passion may I slake
The spirit's thirst, nor all fair things for food
With appetite of youthful lust devour;
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Nor speed to fiery ends, nor soar in flame;
Nor crowd all gain and loss into an hour;
Nor shake a universe to build a name.
Age lays its muting fingers on the strings.
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Yet, in the silence, something inward sings,
And something sees with strangely wakened eyes;
Time, like a chemist, from the past distils
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An essence by whose might the spirit flies
Swift as a shooting star along the hills.