Leaves less than half remaining, for the dark, Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end. To those who burn the candle to the stick, The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.
We cannot count on raveled threads of age Whereof to weave a fabric. We must use The warp and woof the ready present yields And toil while daylight lasts. Not for me Is time for retrospection or for dreams, Not time for self-laudation or remorse. Then I must not let Dead yesterday unborn to-morrow shame. Be my reminder in temptation's hour, And keep me silent when I would condemn.