Count that day lost, whose low descending sun
Views from thy hand no worthy action done.
Anon.
BIRTHDAYS.
“Time is the stuff of life”—then spend not thy days while they last
In dreams of an idle future, regrets for a vanished past;
The tombstones lie thickly behind thee, but the stream still hurries thee on,
New worlds of thought to be traversed, new fields to be fought and won.
Let work be thy measure of life—then only the end is well—