Rhymes, or of grief or of sorrow Pass and are not, Rhymes of today—tomorrow Lie forgot. I that am writer of verses— What is my prize?— Palm crowns and gold filled purses, Honour that dies As the year flies, As the multitude breaks and disperses And the new Generations arise—? If through these rhymes in their reading Thy blood should be Quickened one moment conceding Homage to me— l have got me a prize far exceeding All prizes that be.
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