I look into my glass,
       And view my wasting 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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