Here at the end of all my winding days,
behind me look I shall not, lest I see
what well I know, yet shrink to look upon:
one set of prints, and none beside my own.
Yet worse, and past all bearing of the heart,
to turn, and find the green grass ris’n again
where I had passed, and not a print of me,
no sign whatever that I once had been.
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