Grow old with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in his hands Who sayeth "a whole I plant, Youth shows but half; Trust God; see all nor be afraid."
Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!
Every one soon or late comes round by Rome.
God is the perfect poet.