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All English Sonnets


The shattered grace of youthful, restless days
Is left behind, has run its tiring race.
The effort shows in many many ways

Through stooping stance and withered, wrinkled face.

The halting gait and whitened hair do show,
All nakedness of doubts and doubtless fears.
The time so deathless moves and does outgrow,
All relics of my past and maddening years.

But what befuddles you my ageing mind?
You always were so constant and so clear,
With what most labored effort moan and grind?
When you so be, I think my end is near!

So let us rest, and Time, the deathless churn,
And in its own relentless movement burn.

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