Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.
The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.
The monumental pomp of age Was with this goodly personage; A stature undepressed in size, Unbent, which rather seemed to rise In open victory o'er the weight Of seventy years, to loftier height.
A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.
Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
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