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Authors:

Now, helpless in the hollow of. An unarmorial age, a trough. Of smoke in slow suspended skeins. Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into. Untruth. The stone finality. They hardly meant has come to be. Their final blazon, and to prove. Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.

Philip Larkin