Footfalls echo in the memory, down the passage which we did not take, towards the door we never opened Into the rose garden.
I don't believe one grows older. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates.
Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment's surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed
What have we to do but stand with empty hands and palms turned upwards in an age which advances progressively backwards?
Our age is an age of moderate virtue And moderate vice