Though paucity of spirit plagues my steps,

And load of daily lifting breaks my back,

Her scent upon the meadow fills me yet.

Immersed in somber cycles that beset,

I strain to ascertain that higher track,

Though paucity of spirit plagues my steps.

It seems the chill of age, its frosty heft,

Does hound my soul while I resist the pack,

Her scent upon the mead...

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