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Poem by Thomas MacDonagh
I am withered and wizened and stiff and old, Sick and hot, and I sigh for the cold, For the days when all of the world was fresh And all of me, my soul and my flesh,-- When my lips and my mouth were cool as the dew, And my eyes, now worn, as clear, as new. I wish I were lying out in the rain In the wood at home, that the waters might strain And stream through me -- But here I lie In a clammy room, and my soul is dry, And shall never be fresh again till I die.
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