Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is gone,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimeley moan;
They might lament - for I am one
Whom men love not - and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet
-from Stanzas Written in Dejection, Near Naples
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