Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be. --Rober Browning(2)

 Not for such hopes and fears 
Annulling youth's brief years, 
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! 
Rather I prize the doubt 
 Low kinds exist without, 
 Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 
 Poor vaunt of life indeed,
 Were man but formed to feed 
 On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: 
Such feasting ended, then 
As sure an end to men; 
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? 
Rejoice we are allied

To That which doth provide 
And not partake, effect and not receive! 
A spark disturbs our clod; 
Nearer we hold of God 
Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. 
Then, welcome each rebuff 
That turns earth's smoothness rough, 
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! 
Be our joys three-parts pain! 
Strive, and hold cheap the strain; 
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!