Can anything be sadder than work left unfinished? Yes, work never begun.
Oh roses for the flush of youth, And laurel for the perfect prime; But pluck an ivy branch for me Grown old before my time.
One day in the country Is worth a month in town
Ah me, but where are now the songs I sang When life was sweet because you call’d them sweet?
Rest, rest at the heart's core . . . till joy shall overtake.
Consider The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:-- We are as they; Like them we fade away As doth a leaf.