I grow old

I grow old

am stiff

I am cold

Does the sun

Within me set?

Or will it blaze

A little yet?

This short piece captures the wistful spirit of much of the poetry of Desmond Piggin (1923-2001): a mixture of a sense of loss that verges on self-pity with a more resilient note that suggests hope in the future. The second stanza has been simply shifted a little down the page with the help of a margin-bottom declaration. The second stanza also carries "white" space below it, so the bottom padding for the poem as a whole has been sharply reduced to maintain a visual balance.
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