The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, 
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, 
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, 
And after many a summer dies the swan. 
Me only cruel immortality 
Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms, 
Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
A white-hair’d shadow roaming like a dream 
The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. 

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