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But O may never dawn that last sad hour
When wine shall fail of its accustomed power,
And I shall look with dull forgetful eyes,
An old dead man, on maidens in their flower.
Then were it time indeed to say good-bye
To the green earth and the old happy sky;
Bury me quick, a garrulous old corpse,—
There is no more of Khayyám left to die.
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