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Nina Haas
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Impatience
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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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