Hamlet worried much to much
About loss of beauty to time’s cold touch
Where it hides when winters come
To deepen the troth on this aging mug
When what we thought as tried and true
Dries up at last like morning dew
And we must live with what we can’t hide
Where then does our beauty lie,
What then do we do for praise
When all we were starts to fade away,
And have we finally made the trade,
For what wisdom’s fingers may have made
How do we become what was new
And resurrect our morning dew?
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