I am sick of the solace of sorrow, And fear what the prophets foretold; I am tired of the tears of tomorrow, And wish that things were as of old; I have felt of the force of the fetters, I have drunk of the draught that embitters, And all is not gold
Aloysius Charles Swinburne
force fear sorrow tears gold prophets tomorrow things sick drunk tired solace
And all is not golden that glitters, And not all that glitters is gold
gold
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