Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle

Three minutes' thought would suffice to find this out; but thought is irksome and three minutes is a long time.

Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more. And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room,

The most important truth which has ever been uttered, and the greatest discovery ever made in the moral world.

The house of delusions is cheap to build, but draughty to live in, and ready at any instant to fall.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough.

Clay lies still, but blood's a rover; Breath's a ware that will not keep. Up, lad: when the journey's over There'll be time enough to sleep.