A poem is no place for an idea.
A man forgets his good luck next day, but remembers his bad luck until next year.
A man should be taller, older, heavier, uglier, and hoarser than his wife.
Few men progress, except as they are pushed along by events.
Some men storm imaginary Alps all their lives, and die in the foothills cursing difficulties which do not exist.
Every successful person I have heard of has done the best he could with the conditions as he found them, and not waited until next year for better.