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 And nothing lives here but the fire, While Father watches from his chair Day follows day The same, or now and then, a different grey, Till, like his hair, Which Mother said was wavy once and bright, They will all turn white.

To-night I heard a bell again— Outside it was the same mist of fine rain, The lamps just lighted down the long, dim street, No one for me— I think it is myself I go to meet: I do not care; some day I shall not think; I shall not be!