CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile,-- The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth,--but I am not So young as to regard men's frown or smile As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; I stood and stand alone,--remembered or forgot.
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