In that far-distant, younger day.
What matter then, though time too early
This frost-work o'er your brow has flung?
He hath no power to dim the beauty
Of one whose soul is ever young.
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In that far-distant, younger day.
What matter then, though time too early
This frost-work o'er your brow has flung?
He hath no power to dim the beauty
Of one whose soul is ever young.