MY hair is gray, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears : My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, But rusted with a vile repose, For they have been a dungeon's spoil, And mine has been the fate... The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland - Sida 411 1879 Obegränsad förhandsgranskning -
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