I look into my glass,

And view my wasted skin,

And say, ‘Would God it came to pass

My heart had shrunk as thin!’

For then I, undistrest

By hearts grown cold to me,

Could lonely wait my endless rest

With equanimity.

But Time, to make me grieve,

Part steals, lets part abide;

And shakes this fragile frame at eve

With throbbings of noontide.

 Thomas Hardy

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