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These words may ring
And they may rhyme,
But shant a moment pass
Before you forget these lines.
Ah, the wish of every wordsmith in this world:
To fashion his fare immortal.
Forever heard.
But alas. . .
When the days are done; when the nights are none,
The echo fades, the bull unrung.
The rhyme is lost as soon as finished,
Though the words are no more diminished
In their capacity,
Except for, perhaps, one word:
I.