“Now, of my three score years and ten, twenty will not come again, and take from seventy springs a score, it only leaves me fifty more.  The woods are lovely, dark and deep.  But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep”, by Housman and Robert Frost.


Which would you choose if you had a chance

In a world made of only three castes?

The few born into happiness who will also assume

That each must pursue their own?

The type that will live and die in the gloom?

Or the kind hatched into melancholy

In times when failing was much too easy

Who shall work their heart out tirelessly

And spend their entire property

To bring joy upon others’ blithely?

The Things You Are To Me.