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But lately, one rough day, this flower I pass’d, 
And recognised it, though an alter’d form, 
Now standing forth, an offering to the blast, 
And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 
I stopp’d, and said, with inly-mutter’d voice, 
“Tt doth not love the shower, nor seek the 
cold :” 
This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
But its necessity in being old. 
The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; 
It cannot help itself in its decay ; 
Stiff in its members, wither’d, changed of hue,” 
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey. 
To be a Prodigal’s Favourite—then, worse truth, 
A Miser’s Pensioner—behold our lot ! 
Oh man, that from thy fair and shining youth 
Age might but take the things youth needed 
not! 
WORDSWORTH. 

