Our youth was happy: why repine That, like the Year’s, Life’s days decline? ‘Tis well to mingle with the mould When we ourselves alike are cold, And when the only tears we shed Are of the dying on the dead.
“When new love plucks the falcon from his wrist, And cuts the gyve and casts the scarlet hood, Where is the heron heart whom flight avails?”
Ezra Pound | “Canzon: The Vision”
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