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The Last Blossom

Rating: 2.8

THOUGH young no more, we still would dream
Of beauty's dear deluding wiles;
The leagues of life to graybeards seem
Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles.

Who knows a woman's wild caprice?
'It played with Goethe's silvered hair,
And many a Holy Father's 'niece'
Has softly smoothed the papal chair.

When sixty bids us sigh in vain
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