The wretchèd anomie of wastèd years,
each devoid of speculative thought,
enslaves the pensive mind, and compounds fears:
wherefore, then, are most memories soon forgot?
Is not molten experience, glowing, cast
upon the intellect, to cool and fade,
then exist, immutable as the past
from whence those mere replications were made?
Where do those multiplicities reside?
Vanished are most, neglect has turned to rust
their forms: each decayèd mass lies beside
the next, while Time transpires them all to dust;
the rest assimilate, yet still remain,
like reflective tears lost unto the rain.
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