I. How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark autumn-evenings come: And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life's November too! II. I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose! III. Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip, ``There he is at it, deep in Greek: ``Now then, or never, out we slip ``To cut from the hazels by the creek ``A mainmast for our ship!'' IV. I shall be at it indeed, my friends: Greek puts already on either side Such a branch-work forth as soon extends To a vista opening far and wide,
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5/29/2022 3:58:54 AM # 1.0.0.968