Cease not to learn until thou cease to live;
Think that day lost wherein thou draw'st no letter,
read more

Cease not to learn until thou cease to live;
Think that day lost wherein thou draw'st no letter,
To make thyself learneder, wiser, better.
[Fr., Jusqu'au cercuil (mon fils) vueilles apprendre,
Et tien perdu le jour qui s'est passe,
Si tu n'y as quelque chose ammasse,
Pour plus scavant et plus sage te rendre.]

If you don't think every day is a good day, just try missing one.

If you don't think every day is a good day, just try missing one.

After the day there cometh the derke night;
For though the day be never so longe,
At read more

After the day there cometh the derke night;
For though the day be never so longe,
At last the belles ringeth to evensonge.

Think that day lost whose (low) descending sun
Views from thy hand no noble action done.
[Lat., read more

Think that day lost whose (low) descending sun
Views from thy hand no noble action done.
[Lat., Virtus sui gloria.]

Listen to the Exhortation of the Dawn!
Look to this Day! For it is Life,
The very read more

Listen to the Exhortation of the Dawn!
Look to this Day! For it is Life,
The very Life of Life.
In its brief course lie all the Varieties
And Realities of your Existence;
The Bliss of Growth,
The Glory of Action,
The Splendor of Beauty;
For Yesterday is but a Dream,
And Tomorrow is only a Vision;
But Today well lived
Makes every Yesterday a Dream of Happiness,
And every Tomorrow a Vision of Hope.
Look well therefore to this Day!
Such is the Salutation of Dawn.

Day!
Faster and more fast,
O'er night's brim, day boils at last;
Boils, pure read more

Day!
Faster and more fast,
O'er night's brim, day boils at last;
Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim.

My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent
without hope.

My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent
without hope.

Daughter of Time, the hypocrite Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an read more

Daughter of Time, the hypocrite Days,
Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes,
And marching single in an endless file,
Bring diadems and fagots in their hands;
To each they offer gifts after his will,
Bread, kingdom, stars, and sky that holds them all;
I, in my pleached garden watched the pomp
Forgot my morning wishes, hastily
Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day
Turned and departed silent. I too late
Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.

Every day may not be good... but there's something good in every day.

Every day may not be good... but there's something good in every day.