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Poem by Thomas Moore
From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 61
YOUTH'S endearing charms are fled; Hoary locks deform my head; Bloomy graces, dalliance gay, All the flowers of life decay. Withering age begins to trace Sad memorials o'er my face; Time has shed its sweetest bloom, All the future must be gloom. This it is that sets me sighing; Dreary is the thought of dying! Lone and dismal is the road, Down to Pluto's dark abode; And, when once the journey 's o'er, Ah! we can return no more!
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