Say, who art thou-thou lean and haggard wretch Thou living satire on the name of man Thou that hast made a god of sordid gold, And to thine idol offered up thy soul? Oh, how I pity thee thy wasted years: Age without comfort-youth that had no prime. To thy dull gaze the earth was never green; The face of nature wore no cheering smile, For ever groping, groping in the dark; Making the soulless object of thy search The grave of all enjoyment.-S.M. Towards...
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