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At Eighty Years

 As nothingness draws near
 How I can see
Inexorably clear
 My vanity.
My sum of worthiness Always so small, Dwindles from less to less To none at all.
As grisly destiny Claims me at last, How grievous seem to me Sins of my past! How keen a conscience edge Can come to be! How pitiless the dredge Of memory! Ye proud ones of the earth Who count your gains, What cherish you of worth For all your pains? E'er death shall slam the door, Will you, like me, Face fate and count the score-- FUTILITY.

Poem by Robert William Service
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