I had sworn thee, not in poetry to rehearse,
That of decaying form thy marvelled age,
By time's golden hour, through studded feelings arise,
Be but in the mirror of e'erything at thy expanse;
And nothing in the world that by a dream,
You'd e'er find worthy of thy perusal:
Nor this outrageous mask thy visage hide,
Will wear out soon in thy diminished sense of being,
Our Bard's love too dear to claim on thy name;
But like a faithful child of old, take you off my chest,
Where the burried bones swell at the foot of thy crag,
I'll break, I'll break, and return thee no more.
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Date Created: Thursday, December 12,2013 3: 23: 14 PM