CXXX. O Time! the beautifier of the dead, Adorner of the ruin, comforter And only healer when the heart hath bled-- Time! the corrector where our judgments err, The test of truth, love,--sole philosopher, For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, Which never loses though it doth defer-- Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift:
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