My locks are loosed from their melony sphere,
And autumn's creeping chill begins to frost
My skin and bones. Winter is almost here
Wherein everything that has not been lost
Will wither and become a timeless heap.
And I, new subject to the brutal blast
That beats us all in winter's icy deep,
Will feel the gust that no man can outlast.
But till then, this old heart pumps through the frore,
Safely warmed by the joys here and to meet
Of keen thoughtful beauty unknown before
In green springtime or the summerday's heat.
Though my body begins its fall apart,
We must not speak so of my vibrant heart.
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