Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.
Strike when thou wilt, the hour of rest, but let my last days be my best.
grow old with me. the best is yet to be. the last of life for which the first was made.
The great beacon light God sets in all, the conscience of each bosom.
My care is for myself; Myself am whole and sole reality.