| http://www.w3.org/ns/prov#value | - Let you not say of me when I am old, In pretty worship of my withered hands Forgetting who I am, and how the sands Of such a life as mine run red and gold Even to the ultimate sifting dust, Behold, Here walketh passionless age!???for there expands A curious superstition in these lands, And by its leave some weightless tales are told.
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