Like the generations of leaves, so are those of men.

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  There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep.

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  Sing, goddess, the wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus.

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  How quickly we come from nothing and go into nothing.

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  Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.

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  We let our pleasant days slip by unnoticed; only when bad days come do we wish the others back.

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  The first forty years of life give us the text; the next thirty supply the commentary on it.

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