Learn to labour and to wait.
All sense of hearing and of sight enfold in the serene delight and quietude of sleep.
And so we plough along, as the fly said to the ox.
Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.
The secret anniversaries of the heart.
Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.