Is there not an art, a music, and a stream of words that shalt be life, the acknowledged voice of life?
""Old times"" never come back and I suppose it's just as well. What comes back is a new morning every day in the year, and that's better.
Left to themselves, things tend to go from bad to worse. Murphy's First Corollary If you tell the boss you were late for work because you had a flat tire, the next morning you will have a flat tire.
O, Struck Beneath The Laurel
O, STRUCK beneath the laurel, where the singing fountains are,
I saw from heaven falling the star of love afar;
O, slain in Eden’s bower nigh the bourn where lovers rest,
I fell upon the arrow that was buried in my breast;
Farewell the noble labor, farewell the silent pain,
Farewell the perfect honor of the long years lived in vain;
I lie upon the moorland where the wood and pasture meet,
And the cords that no man breaketh are bound about my feet.