as a sigh comes finallynat the end of a regretnsome things are just impossiblento forgetnnmy affections and reflectionsnthe many irons in a lasting burnnand each extracts its duenin its own turnnnour small measure, the old measurenour muscle our mettle our nervenmay temper but can't changenwhat we deservenni have read by my own dim lightnand of these matters at handni recount to younwhat truths i cannnour small measure, the old measurenour muscle our mettle our nervenmay temper but can't changenwhat we deserve