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Close follow'd age, infirm old age,
The winter of my year ; When shall I fall before his rage,
To rise beyond the sphere !
I long to cast the chains away, That hold my soul a slave.
To burst these dungeon-walls of clay, Enfranchised from the grave.
Life lies in embryo, — never free Till Nature yields her breath ;
Till Time becomes Eternity, And Man is born in Death.
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