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Waking we burst, at each return of morn,
From death's dull fetters and again are born.
No longer ours the moments that have passed;
To a new remnant of our lives we haste.
Call not the hours thine own, that made thee grey,
That left their wrinkles, and have fled away;
The past no more shall yield thee ill or good,
Gone to the silent times beyond the flood.