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WHEN fires have burnt your forest bare and black, And you are parched and dizzy, and search in vain For pools in dust unvisited of rain, And shamble, lost, along a shimmering track, This is the comfort of the world: “Alack! So youth’s illusions die, that we may gain Wisdom and strength to face our lifelong pain, The truth, from which no man shall turn him back.”
Falter for no such melancholy lies, |