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`For the life of a man comes upon him
slowly and insensibly ...'
-- Jeremy Taylor
He puts down his book -- it is
the works of one of the number of
the old poets he still loves very much, has
loved for a long time -- and noticing
the loveliness of the weak light
of the winter afternoon sloping in
and lying so bleakly and hesitantly
and quietly on the rounded upper
surfaces of the bare branches
and knobby twigs of the trees
he can see from the window,
he thinks, And that, just as
it is just now
-- that is plenty.