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JOHN JONES.
XVII.
Earth keeps good yet, the sun goes on, stars hold their own,
And you'll change, climb past sight of the world, shift your skin,
Never heeding how life moans—"more flesh now, less bone!"
For that cheek's worn waste outline (death's grin)
XVIII.
(There's the crab gone!) '"I said, 'Though earth sinks,'"' (you perceive?