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IN five-score summers! All new eyes, New minds, new modes, new fools, new wise; New woes to weep, new joys to prize;

With nothing left of me and you In that live century’s vivid view Beyond a pinch of dust or two;

A century which, if not sublime, Will show, I doubt not, at its prime, A scope above this blinkered time.

—Yet what to me how far above? For I would only ask thereof That thy worm should be my worm, Love!

16 WESTBOURNE PARK VILLAS, 1867.