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The Wildcat Prospect The years have stolen the gold of yesterday And left the present empty, drab and cold; We love to hear the centuries retold In tales that lead our reasoning astray. The wings that lifted us are torn away; Our feet are lead which iron shackles hold In bond; we crouch like lambs within a fold That troop at pipings of the shepherd's lay. Our windows open on a western strand, Where sunset's tangles glories hurry on; We bar the shutters with reluctant hand, And, drunk with ashen dreams, forget the drawn; We linger and we lose, the Orient bland, With early fingers, gilds the lighted lawn.