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Nina Haas


Perhaps other old people are better . . .

But do not depend on me!

That breathless impatience,

So charming in youth,

—Salero, you called it,

A spoon-full of fire—

Has wilted into a course

Too impatient to care,

To water, to tend,

Even the flowers . . .

My poor fuchsias survive

On a sliver of conscience.

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