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8 To soft—that intense ire

At those mock rites unsanctified by fire.

But we pay nought here: through our flesh, age-weighed,

Left out from who gave aid

In that day,—we remain,

Staying on staves a strength

The equal of a child's at length.

For when young marrow in the breast doth reign,

That's the old man's match,—Ares out of place

In either: but in oldest age's case,

Foliage a-fading, why, he wends his way

On three feet, and, no stronger than a child,

Wanders about gone wild,

A dream in day.